


Armistice

by mydwynter



Series: Memoranda of Understanding [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ACD Canon References, Anal Play, Banter, Case Fic, Comeplay, Companionable Snark, Exhibitionism, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Humor, Lack of Communication, M/M, Novel, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Porn Video, Rimming, Romance, Sexting, Snark, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 66,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/pseuds/mydwynter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Things were good, all told. Weren’t they? He had a job he was good at, a modest flat, a fantastic daughter who worried about him a bit too much for comfort, an ex he could at least speak with without it devolving into shouting and tears, and his car was in decent repair. On paper he was doing just fine. So why did he feel so…at a loss?</i>
</p><p>Furthermore, Greg and Mycroft weren't <i>actually</i> dating. Mycroft was just a casual shag. This was an important thing to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to my betas Mazarin221B and HiddenLacuna, who have been patient enough to listen to me go on and on—for months—about how fantastic I think Greg and Mycroft can be, and who have let me work out just what story about them I want to tell.

"So," said Greg. "What have you got?"

Sherlock walked around the body, taking only about five steps to do so on those absurd legs of his, then crouched down at its side while snapping on a pair of gloves. “Gunshot wound. Left parietal. Played rugby casually at the weekend, doodled compulsively, and just came back from a brief visit to Blackpool to see The Lights.”

From his vantage point at the side of the office within the abandoned mill building, Greg watched John squat down next to him and begin to prod the body as well. "Ticket to an illuminated tram tour in his pocket, okay. Aaaaand…there's ink on the side of his hand, left, and a scribbled thing on the side of his trainer, but how do you—oh holy hell, I know him." John ducked down to get a better look at his face. "Knew him. Well, sort of. I don't know his name, but he plays football on our…" John trailed off and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "That's how you knew he played rugby. You see him sometimes when you pull me away from my games."

"Obviously," Sherlock said, and he moved on to examine the room as if that fact didn’t matter a whit.

At this revelation, Greg had to step in. "Okay, wait a minute. You knew the victim?"

Sherlock waved that away. "Enough to identify where I'd seen him before, but not enough for there to be any trouble. Let it go, Lestrade."

Greg rolled his eyes. "I was just making sure—"

"It's fine," Sherlock said, stalking to the window. He examined the window with his usual precision, then opened it and peered out over the sill. When he appeared to have looked all he wanted, he started taking off his gloves.

"That's it?" Greg didn't really feel like putting up with Sherlock's 'mysterious' shit today, but truthfully he _never_ felt like putting up with Sherlock's shit and he always seemed to get it anyway. He jiggled the keys in his trouser pocket through his blue overalls, frustrated and jittery with pent-up energy.

"That's all I need from you right now."

"Sherlock, what about what I need from you?"

"I care less about that."

Greg set his jaw. "So I'm just going to have to sit on my hands, as usual?"

Sherlock wagged his fingers at him. Greg had thought the dismissive attitude had got better over the years, especially now that John had not-insignificant hold over him, but he supposed backslides were inevitable. "I'm sure you'll have your hands full keeping a rein on your idiotic forensics team, as usual. Make sure they notice the chip in the window ledge.”

"Sherlock—" Greg growled.

"John, let's go." And Sherlock walked off without a backward glance.

In the early days of Greg’s and Sherlock's acquaintance, this would have been where Greg let him go, unsure where he could draw the line without risking Sherlock’s wrath, unsure exactly how to push that too-skinny, burnt-up wreck of a man. And early on in Sherlock and John’s friendship, Greg used to let them both go with barely an apologetic look from John.

Now, however, and particularly on this day when his patience was on a hair trigger, it only took five seconds before the perpetual itching underneath his skin caught fire. He ran after them. “No,” he said, grabbing Sherlock’s arm in the hallway outside the room and swinging him round. “No. You’re not going to do this to me.”

Sherlock looked down at Greg’s hand wrapped vice-like around his forearm, then up into Greg’s face. His eyes narrowed. “What.”

“Tell me what you know, Sherlock.” Greg hardened his eyes. “Now.” He endured Sherlock’s gaze skittering over his face for several long moments before there was a minute softening around his eyes and he dragged Greg back into the room.

“Look,” he said, pointing at the glass around the window. “Use your eyes. Look. Glass on the outside, with no dust on it. Newly broken. Look outside. Glass on the ledge two storeys down. Rubbish skip. Look.” He crouched down to point on the underside of the window sill where the wood was showing through the greying white paint. The marks looked fresh, the splintered wood gleaming. “This wood was recently battered by something very hard, harder than it. And look. There are fibres on the window sill. Small. Cut. Hemp, if I’m not mistaken.” Sherlock led them over to the body. “And now look here. Tiny glass shards on his sleeve. You can see them in the light. And his finger has been abraded.”

“From the window glass?” John asked, dubious.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “From the _gun._ ”

“Sherlock,” Greg said, feeling an idiot even as the words were coming out of his mouth, but by god he didn’t have the mental fortitude to deal with this shit right now. “There _was no gun_.”

Rising to his feet, Sherlock said, “There is no gun _in this room_.” Sherlock stepped closer to him and pointed out the window. “With a hemp rope the victim attached the gun to something that would act as ballast. He put the ballast out the window, the rope or twine coming through the broken glass into the room, and so when he shot himself the whole thing acted like a dead man switch.” Sherlock acted it out, throwing his head back and his arm out to the side like a marionette. “He let go as he fell, the gun flew out the window, breaking more glass, battering the window ledge, falling into the skip outside, which has since been emptied. Clever. The abrasion on his finger was a dead giveaway; no other defensive wounds, but perimortem damage to a trigger finger? Suicide, not murder. Obvious.”

“Not to me,” said John.

“Yes, but when is anything obvious to you?”

John set his jaw, and his eyes flashed, but he said nothing. He said it very loudly, and Greg looked between them for a few seconds, suspicious. “Sherlock,” he said, wanting to sidetrack them from whatever fight appeared to be simmering under the surface, “there was no GSR on his hands.”

“There are blood stains on the tails of his shirt consistent with him using it as a makeshift glove. I suggest you test that. What is wrong with you people?” He looked around, ostensibly to look through the wall at the forensics crew hiding outside the door. “Are you all so irretrievably distracted by lack of sex that you can’t do your jobs, or is that only Lestrade?”

Greg’s jaw dropped. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, spare me the theatrics.”

“Spare _you_ the theatrics?” John said, relieving Greg of the necessity.

“Sherlock,” Greg said through clenched jaws. “Tell me whatever else you have to say and go.”

“I'm through.” Sherlock snapped off his second pair of gloves and binned them with a flourish. “I can’t stand being around you two any more. You with your seething sexual frustration and John with his hurt puppy frown. Like I _care_ whether either of you are feeling ‘’fulfilled.” He made air quotes around the word while staring at John, then disappeared out the door with a flick of his coat, leaving John standing in the room looking flabbergasted.

Greg took a step closer to him. “What the hell was—“

John interrupted him with a brisk shake of his head, but wouldn’t look him in the eye, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “Just. Not now.” He blinked his astonishment away and finally looked at Greg. “I will speak to you later,” he said in a monstrously level tone, then turned on his heel to leave.

Greg frowned after them for a few seconds before the crime scene manager interrupted him, and with a massive mental effort Greg directed his focus back to the case at hand. Whatever was going on with them, if he was meant to know John would surely tell him. In the meantime, Sherlock’s point was (unfortunately, inevitably) fair; he did have work to do, and a steady hum of sexual frustration to ignore. He directed his team to pay close attention to the glass, the tails of the victim’s shirt, the glass outside, and the damage to the window, and went to go find out whose lucky job it was going to be to figure out where—in the entirety of the country’s rubbish—the murder weapon had got to.

* * *

“Hello,” Greg said, steering into the car park in front of the sandwich place and setting the handbrake. He smiled. “Does this mean you’re back?”

“It does.” The sound of Mycroft’s voice made the tension in Greg’s spine ease. He slumped back against the seat and ran his hand through his hair.

“How was the trip?”

“Uneventful.”

“Which is a good thing, right?”

“In this case, yes.”

Greg sat listening to Mycroft breathe for a moment. “Do you have anything on later tonight?”

“I was hoping you might be available.”

Just the idea of it sent a thrill of arousal clear down to Greg’s toes. “I am for you.”

Mycroft chuckled. “It won’t be until just past nine, if that’s not a problem.”

“No problem at all. It will be excellent to see you.”

“I look forward to seeing you as well.” 

Greg could hear the truth of it in Mycroft’s voice, and his chest filled with an answering warmth. “Oh— Will you have eaten?” Greg cast an eye toward the front of the building where he had lunch waiting for pick-up. He could always order something for supper if…

“Yes, thank you. I only wish to…spend some time with you.”

Shag like rabbits, he meant. Greg welcomed it eagerly; today it made a two full weeks that Mycroft had been out of town, and that was the longest they’d gone without sex in the past few months they’d been…doing whatever it was they were doing. “I’ll look for you round nine, then?”

“I’ll see you then, Gregory.”

Greg’s stomach squeezed, and he smiled into his mobile. “Bye.”

* * *

After work, Greg scrubbed his day from his pores. He washed his hair twice. He ate a boring ready meal and drank a beer and cleaned his teeth and sat down to wait. At 8, he turned on the telly to see if there was anything worth watching, but Celebrity Big Brother didn't hold a candle to the dystopian novel he was halfway through, so he clicked off the programme and settled down across the sofa to read and wait.

He woke to the rattling sound of his mobile about to vibrate off the coffee table. With the back of his hand, he scrubbed the drool out of the corner of his mouth.

"Hello?"

"I've woken you."

"Mm. Oh. Hi. Yeah, sorry." Greg squinted across the room at the clock on the wall.

"I'm sorry to do this to you, but I'm not going to be able to make it tonight, I'm afraid."

"Oh." Greg peered at the clock. "It's half past ten."

"Yes, I know. I apologise. I was caught in an important meeting. We've taken a break, but I don't think it will be over for a long while yet. Perhaps we should postpone."

Greg groaned into the phone and rolled to face the back of the sofa. "Mycroft…"

"I know. I know exactly."

"It's been ages."

"Trust me, Gregory. No one is more aware of that fact than I am."

Greg groaned again and he stretched full-length on the sofa, pointing his toes and arching his back. "When will you have time?" he said, curling up around the phone.

"As soon as possible, I will let you know."

For a moment, Greg considered putting on his best begging voice and pleading for Mycroft to come over when the meeting was done—no matter how late—but his dignity just barely kept him in check. "I understand."

"I'd hoped you might."

"Well." There was really nothing more to say, was there? "Good luck with the meeting."

"Gregory, let me just— I'm really _quite_ sorry about this. Immensely sorry."

"It's not a problem." Greg just would have to be satisfied with his hand for another day or so. They were old pals, after all.

"I appreciate it."

There was dead air over the line for a few minutes before Greg spoke. "I'll speak to you soon."

"Absolutely. Good night, Gregory."

"'Night."

Greg chucked his phone down onto the carpet and groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He hadn't realised the depth of his craving until it was taken away from him. The sex had become something he relied on now, and going without was a serious strain on his system. There was something to be said for a regular fuck—not to mention the personal contact. A wank just didn't hold a candle to sex with Mycroft. It just didn't.

He chewed over just how spoiled he'd become as he flicked off all the lights in his flat and toddled off to his bedroom to sleep. Alone.

* * *

When Greg turned on the light in his office the next day, there was a small box sitting at the centre of his desk.

"Patel?" Greg said, backing up a few steps and calling groggily to the desk sergeant while he rubbed at his eyes. He hadn’t slept well. "Do you know anything about this thing on my desk?"

"Thing?" Patel appeared from around the corner to stare at the nondescript object. It seemed out of place, even on top of the clutter. "No sir."

"No one has come in?"

"Not since I've been here. For a few hours, now, at least."

Greg frowned. He took a step into the room to examine it more closely.

"Are you sure you should do that, sir?"

Greg froze, then he stopped and looked at the young man, who was fiddling with the end of his tie. For some reason, his nervousness seemed to clear Greg's away. "What do you think it's full of? A boggart?"

"Could be…could be a bomb?"

Making a derisive noise, Greg turned back to the box and looked at it from a foot away. From this distance, he could see something written on it that made the tension in his spine melt away. "At ease, gentleman." He snatched it up and started picking it open. "I know who this is from."

"How did it get here?"

"Sneaky bugger's got ways," Greg said, and flopped down into his chair to produce from the nest of brown paper a ridiculous plastic stress ball that looked like an eye. When he squeezed it, the iris bulged out of the bloodshot white.

"Who would send you that, sir?" said Patel, who was still lingering in the doorway and who looked entirely unimpressed.

"Never mind," Greg said, and waited for Patel to leave before he opened up the tiny card that had been tucked into the packing.

_To help alleviate some stress until a more suitable activity is possible. Tonight, perhaps?_

_-M_

Greg squeezed the eyeball out of the socket a few times, staring at Mycroft's handwriting and grinning. He texted back, `What time?` and set the toy on the edge of his desk, aiming it to look at whomever stood in the doorway.

Almost immediately, there was a reply. Greg thought Mycroft couldn’t be too damn busy if he was waiting by the phone.

`9pm. At mine. You might bring a change of clothing for tomorrow.`

Greg couldn't help the grin spreading across his face. He rarely went over to Mycroft’s; more often, they ended up tumbling into bed at Greg’s, with Mycroft leaving before the dawn. `Don't you think I owe you a gift in return?`

`If you feel the urge, I have a few ideas in mind. However, none of them can be packaged up in cardboard or sent via courier.`

`I'll have to deliver it in person, you think?`

`Without a doubt.`

Writhing very slightly in his seat, Greg stared at the conversation. His cheeks began to ache with smiling. `Then expect a special delivery at 9pm.`

`I'm not certain I've more looked forward to receiving post in my entire life,` Mycroft texted back, setting Greg's day on a pleasant track that would last him through the entire morning.

* * *

“Where’s the fire?” Sally said, smirking. She dropped a folder onto his desk and watched Greg gather the papers on his desk into a few hurried piles while he also sucked down the last of his coffee and tried to put on his jacket on, all at once. She crossed her arms and leaned against the glass wall of Greg’s office to watch the show.

“I have a, er, thing tonight, but I want to get in a run first,” he said.

“Feeling a bit jittery?”

“No.” He stopped for a brief moment to peer at her. “Jittery why?”

“I just assumed you were going to see Holmes tonight,” she said with a leering grin. “It’s been a while since you were this amped up to go home. And you’ve been playing with that stress ball pretty hard. Which I know he gave you.”

“How did you know that?” He resented the smirk on her face.

She gestured at the discarded wrapping in the wastepaper bin. “Wasn’t really that hard to suss out.”

“You’re fired.”

Sally grinned wider and patted him on the shoulder. “Go get laid, please. You’re driving us all round the bend.”

“You’re double fired.” He managed to shrug on his jacket without getting too caught up in the sleeves and picked up his empty coffee mug. “Here, wash this for me.”

“I thought I was fired?” she called after him as he headed down the corridor toward the lift.

“Unfired. Clean my mug.”

“I quit,” she sang and Greg stepped into the lift with a gigantic grin on his face.

He stopped at Sainsbury’s for a salad on his way home, feeling remarkably optimistic about life for once, and tossed it in the fridge to keep until after his run. Greg stretched perfunctorily and headed out, relying on the familiar motion of running to soothe his jitters and warm his nerves.

There was no reason to be nervous, really. Sex with Mycroft didn’t really count as _new_ anymore. But for some reason the break in transmission was making it all _seem_ new. …And daunting. What if that was it? What if the ease and satisfaction of the sex had just been a fluke, and now that things had been reset it was going to feel awkward? What if Mycroft decided it wasn’t worth his time anymore? What if Greg did?

Why did it matter?

Greg pushed his pace a little harder until the endorphins kicked in, and he rode them all the way through the rest of his route, trying not to vex himself with any particular thoughts at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _After two weeks, seeing him was strangely relieving. Greg felt a knot in his stomach let go as he took in the familiar lines of Mycroft’s nose and mouth and neck, at his freshly-shower-damp hair, at the light in his eyes as he looked back at Greg._
> 
> There was something incredibly hot about how very reactive he was; Greg wondered whether Mycroft would eventually become inured to it, or if he was always going to feel things so very loudly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to my betas Mazarin221B and HiddenLacuna, who have been patient enough to listen to me go on and on—for months—about how fantastic I think Greg and Mycroft can be, and who have let me work out just what story about them I want to tell.

Mycroft answered the door on the first knock. "Hello."

"Hey." After two weeks, seeing him was strangely relieving. Greg felt a knot in his stomach let go as he took in the familiar lines of Mycroft’s nose and mouth and neck, at his freshly-shower-damp hair, at the light in his eyes as he looked back at Greg.

A heavy moment of silence lay between them, and they stared at each other until Mycroft spoke. "How was your day?"

"Fine. How was yours?"

"Tolerable."

They were stood on opposite sides of the threshold. "Are you going to invite me in?"

"Oh," Mycroft blinked. "Er…" He gestured Greg into the house. "I'm sorry it's so late. But I'm glad we could finally find the ti—"

Greg didn't let him finish. Mycroft had barely got the door closed before Greg had grabbed his face and pulled him into a kiss. Mycroft's knees buckled slightly and he shivered, already yanking at the tails of Greg's shirt and shovelling his hands up underneath to stroke down his back. They both groaned.

" _Christ._ " Greg pressed frantic kisses against Mycroft's long neck, which Mycroft stretched longer with a shaky exhalation, begging for the touch. Greg scraped his teeth on his skin. "Oh god, we can't wait this long again."

"I'm—" Mycroft interrupted himself to whimper. "I'm sorry, but—"

"I know." Greg bit down on Mycroft's shoulder with a growl, and felt a thrill of arousal at the way it made Mycroft's spine go immediately rigid. "I missed—Ohh, I missed this."

Mycroft squeezed Greg around the ribs and made a broken noise. "God. Yes. Same." He nuzzled hard into the side of Greg's face. Something powerful flooded through Greg. He took Mycroft's head in both hands and kissed him as deeply as possible, heart pounding, until Mycroft whimpered.

Greg broke the kiss to gasp and regain his breath. "How— How was the trip?” he asked, before remembering he’d already asked that on the phone.

"Fine. Arduous." Mycroft abandoned his efforts to divest Greg of clothing and instead tried to press every inch of their bodies together.

"Did you—" Greg was cut off with a grunt as Mycroft ground a thigh up between his legs. Greg's eyelids flickered shut, and for a long moment the only sound was their ragged breathing as they pressed together, rhythmically rubbing against each other like teenagers. Eventually Greg regained his senses and pushed Mycroft away by the hips just enough that he could gather his control and take off their trousers. "Did you, er, accomplish whatever your goal was?" he said against Mycroft's neck.

"Time will tell," Mycroft said, and he joined in the effort to strip them both bare.

"Do you have to go away again soon?"

"Again, time will tell." Greg swallowed down a strange pang as they chased each other up the stairs to the bed.

He threw himself onto it first and pulled Mycroft down on top of him, knocking a moan from both of them. Greg skimmed his hands up and down Mycroft's back, revelling in the softness, burying his face against Mycroft’s neck, inhaling his familiar, shower-clean, gorgeous scent. His stomach flipped. Mycroft pulled back and kissed him again, madly, intensely, so hard it bruised.

"Dear god, yes,” Mycroft gasped, pressing his face against Greg's. He clutched at Greg's hips, and Greg's mind spun for a moment with a flush of pleasure. He sucked in a rapid lungful of air and shuddered it out, reeling.

"Oh please. Yes." Greg ground out between his teeth, whimpering with the feeling of Mycroft on top of him. His hands scratched down Mycroft's back. "Oh _please_."

"What do you want? Tell me," Mycroft said as he feverishly kissed Greg's neck.

"Anything. Anything. Just make me come."

Mycroft sucked in a breath, pressed his forehead to Greg's neck, and moaned. "Say that again. Please."

"Make me come," Greg growled into his ear. He was gratified to feel Mycroft shiver.

"How?"

"I don't care. At all. In the slightest." Greg skated his hands down Mycroft’s back and gnawed at his shoulder. He grabbed two emphatic handfuls of Mycroft's arse. Mycroft groaned and ground his hips down against Greg’s, and another couple of minutes passed lost to sensation, chasing pleasure.

Greg rolled them both over and mouthed his way down Mycroft's chest. Mycroft lay back on the bed like a gasping, bliss-soaked thing, seeming to float with the feeling of Greg's lips and teeth and hands. Greg marvelled that this man who appeared to seldom allow lust and sex and pleasure in his life felt them all so keenly and so well. Hedonism looked good on Mycroft, and if Greg was going to be the one allowed to bring it out in him, he was going to take that responsibility seriously.

With that in mind Greg narrowed his focus further and further down until he was nuzzling the auburn curls at the base of Mycroft's cock, inhaling, pressing his face in. He could feel the tiny twitches of Mycroft’s muscles, proof that he was trying desperately to maintain control of himself in spite of the sensation and the inbuilt desire to roll his hips for more. Greg loved it. He smiled against the base of Mycroft's cock and very gently scraped his teeth. It wasn't a surprise at all to feel the kick of Mycroft’s hips and hear him hiss.

" _Gregory_ ," he said.

"Mmm…" Greg smiled and began to mouth his way up the underside of Mycroft's cock.

The reaction wasn't violent. It was a slow burn, a steady build up as the pleasure piled onto itself moment by moment until Mycroft was writhing underneath Greg's mouth and hands, his ribs heaving for breath and his hands flung out wide for purchase in the sheets.

Greg flushed with power. He flickered his tongue just under the head of Mycroft's cock and, not even giving him a moment to react, swallowed him all down at once. His eyes fell closed and he sucked hard, revelling in the whimpers and soft cries coming from up the bed. To be able to control Mycroft like this, it was… The pleasure of it rolled through him, sensitising all the nerve endings in his fingers and toes, tightening his gut, and Greg pushed Mycroft's thighs wide, pinning him to the bed.

"Oh my… Oh christ…" Mycroft buried both hands in Greg's hair and rode out the sensation.

"Yes?" Greg asked, and sucked one of Mycroft's testicles into his mouth for a moment, soft and wet.

"Oh lord yes…" Mycroft just barely got out before he moaned.

Greg took one look at him and ducked down, nuzzling his face against Mycroft's inner thigh. He laid a stream of soft kisses, up, up, closer to the space between his legs, feeling Mycroft's breath become more ragged. Lust pulsed through Greg's blood and in his groin at the sound of it: the wet sounds of his mouth, the shattered sound of his breathing, and the minuscule noises he heard Mycroft stifling deep down in his throat.

Greg opened his mouth when he neared the junction of Mycroft's legs and exhaled a hot breath. Mycroft’s whimper made him smile. He did it again, and then once more, and before he could make himself light-headed he pushed his face in close and sucked a kiss into Mycroft's perineum.

Still pinned with his legs pressed wide, Mycroft couldn't jerk with sensation, but Greg could feel his muscles suddenly tense as if he had done so. Greg sucked another kiss, then another, leaving the area wet and sloppy. Mycroft gasped and reached one hand back to grasp the headboard. Greg saw his knuckles turn white almost immediately.

There was something incredibly hot about how very reactive he was; Greg wondered whether he would eventually become inured to it, or if he was always going to feel things so very loudly. Greg pushed hard circles with his tongue and pulled back to find both of Mycroft's arms now gripping above his head, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling and panting as if he'd run a race.

"Oh god. Gregory.” Mycroft's mouth fell slack and two bright spots of colour bloomed high in his cheeks.

"Yes?" Greg said lightly, mouthing his way down the underside of Mycroft's cock. The whining noise Mycroft made expanded the fledgling bubble of joy in Greg's chest.

"Don't tease."

"I thought you liked teasing."

Mycroft whimpered again and let go of the headboard to card his fingers through Greg’s hair.

Greg flicked his tongue against the slick, hairy skin of Mycroft’s perineum until his knees shook. "No more teasing," Greg growled, and he pressed hard against the spot, revelling in the deep moan that Mycroft directed at the ceiling. "No more teasing."

He let go of Mycroft's legs and directed him to flip over. Although Mycroft's thighs were trembling and his arms flopped weakly, he still managed to roll onto his stomach. Greg grabbed him by the front of his hips and pulled him back so he was sitting nearly on his heels, pushed him up onto his knees, then wedged his body in between Mycroft's legs.

“Yesss,” Greg hissed, swiping his fingertips gently up and down Mycroft's spine, then down his thigh. “Perfect.” He laid a few kisses at the base of Mycroft's spine, there at the top of the crack of his arse, then flicked his tongue out. Mycroft's head went heavy on his neck and fell down between his shoulders, the long arch of his neck prominent and gorgeous. 

"Perfect," Greg said again. He kissed sloppily, slowly, down the crack of Mycroft's arse, tasting shower gel and skin and sweat. Then he kneaded his buttocks wide, dipped down, and flicked his tongue at the target.

The noise Mycroft made was inhuman. Greg flicked his tongue a few times, feeling his mouth water, slicking it up, then pressed his face in harder and rolled his tongue around the outer rim. He slid gentle circles round and round and round in unending sensation until the large muscles in Mycroft's thighs shook and Greg’s tongue ached.

Mycroft’s cries eventually quieted down until the only sound he made was a nonsensical stream of vowels and syllables pressed into the bed: babbling pleasure, whining, panting bliss. His buttocks were tensing over and over, more evidence of how much control he was trying to keep over his reactions.

At which point Greg pulled back for a single, hard, flick.

Mycroft's groan vibrated all the way down his body. _Yes,_ Greg thought. _This really is bliss._

He flicked again, and then once more, each time steadying Mycroft's hips as he jerked with sensation. Then Greg pushed more saliva against Mycroft's skin and went back to painting slow, deliberate circles around his hole.

Mycroft moaned, a broken, shattered thing, and this time Mycroft actually did roll his hips, the reflexive motion of arousal strong enough to overpower any higher brain function. Greg pulled his mouth away.

He looked down at Mycroft: wracked with tremors, shiny and wet between the cheeks, and flushed all the way down his back and up his thighs. Greg ran his hand all over him, taking in the beauty. Then he slipped his hand between Mycroft's legs. He palmed Mycroft’s balls, rolled them, and slid his hand forward, feeling with his fingertips the changing texture of the skin along his cock, rough to smooth. He was shockingly hard—harder than Greg had ever felt him—and Greg could feel him shaking, trying so desperately to control himself. Arousal flared deep in Greg's gut; Mycroft's self-control could be irritating, could be _infuriating_ , but right now it was the hottest thing Greg had ever seen. Mycroft had to be so turned on he could scarcely see straight but here he was planted on all fours, letting Greg touch his body in all manner of ways and not moving a muscle.

_Jesus._

Greg dragged his fingertips against the head of Mycroft's cock and was shocked at the amount of moisture that came away. He made a loose fist and pressed it up against the base of Mycroft's cock, then pushed it out along the underside. Mycroft stifled a moan as his cock twitched again, and Greg pushed out more pre-come in a long string that trailed between his knuckles and the slit.

_Oh Jesus god._

By this point even Greg's calm was threatened. He groaned, his own cock heavy and aching between his legs. With the backs of his knuckles he milked Mycroft's cock again, then a third time, each time coming away with more pre-come, each time making Mycroft twitch harder, each time dragging a rattling groan from Mycroft's throat. His knuckles were slick with it. Shaking, he wrapped his whole hand around Mycroft's cock and pulled.

The noise Mycroft made, if you could bottle it, could drive Greg's solitary orgasms for a month. Mycroft shuddered and rolled his head between his arms. He started to roll his hips forward, but at the very last moment he ratcheted down that iron control once more. His breath puffed like a steam engine.

The control Mycroft was exhibiting was damaging enough to Greg's that he had to palm his own cock for a moment just to regain enough brain power to handle the situation. He dragged his fingertips over the head of Mycroft's cock with his other hand, enjoying the way Mycroft stifled his exclamations, enjoying the way he shuddered and leaked and controlled himself after only the barest blip on the radar.

Greg decided to push him just a little farther.

He leaned down, puffed a lungful of hot breath against Mycroft’s arsehole, and pressed his mouth against it again.

The double pleasure of Greg’s mouth and hand made Mycroft slump down and howl into the pillow. For a few moments, Greg revelled in the rough-slick texture against his tongue. He brushed gently across the surface, he flicked it back and forth gathering blood and sensation to the skin, then he pressed hard circles against it, all the while playing his fingers against Mycroft's cock. Mycroft's cries grew louder and louder, and his limbs shook violently, and he panted for air. And then, without warning, Greg stopped.

He sat up, watching Mycroft attempt not to writhe, not to roll his hips, not to beg. He looked wrecked.

“God, look at you,” Greg said, and he swiped his fingertips across Mycroft’s arsehole and his cock at the same time, making him twitch. “Look at how hard you are. Look at how wet you are.”

“I didn’t—“ Mycroft was forced to clear his throat. “I haven’t. In two weeks.”

 _What?_ “You haven’t…what? Come in two weeks?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I was…I was saving it.”

 _Oh holy hell._ “You were saving it until we were together again?”

Mycroft nodded, and Greg’s cock throbbed.

“God,” Greg said. “You must be desperate to come.” He dragged his fingertips down the underside of Mycroft’s cock, making him shudder and moan. Greg’s head tilted to the side as he considered the sight in front of him. “You really didn’t wank.”

Mycroft shook his head.

“But you probably wanted to.”

“Constantly.”

Greg groaned. Then he took pity on the poor man, and began to do it for him. He kept the fingertips of one hand resting lightly on Mycroft’s arse, and with the other starting stroking him—gently, quickly, running wetness around the head and pulling at it until Mycroft’s thighs began to shake again. “You didn’t wank at all. You probably sat in those meetings, feeling the ache. The craving. Regular sex plays havoc with your libido when you’re not getting it anymore. I bet you got partially aroused sometimes, just thinking about it.”

Mycroft groaned.

“Sitting at the table, crossing your legs, hoping your erection would go away. And then going back to the hotel and keeping your hands off yourself. You could have wanked in bed. Or in the chair, or even in the shower—ohhh, yes, the shower. I know how you like it, light and quick, wet, very wet, so you can hear it. Hear the naughty sounds of getting yourself off into the shower… I would have loved to see that. I _love_ watching you come.” Mycroft moaned, and he pulsed harder in Greg’s hand.

“So you’ve been saving this all up, saving it for me, holding back for weeks so when you come I can watch. Ohhh, this is going to be so good. You are going to come so hard.” Mycroft whimpered. Greg’s hand sped, and now he started pushing his fingers around Mycroft’s arse, playing with it, feeling the tissue react to the touch. It was still slick and open and wet from Greg’s mouth.

“You are going to come _so_ hard. You’ve been saving it up for me. I want to watch you come. Show it to me. Show me how much you’ve saved for me. I want to see how much.”

Mycroft bucked into Greg’s hand a few times as he began to lose control of himself. “Ohhh,” Greg said, “I bet you can already feel it in your thighs. All over your skin. You are so flushed already. I bet your heart is racing, your blood pumping so hard, filling up—ohhh, yes, there it is,” Greg said, feeling Mycroft’s cock twitch. “I can feel it starting already. You’re so hard. God, Mycroft, you’re so hard. You’re dripping. God, you’re going to come so hard.”

Greg’s hands were riding the movements of Mycroft’s body as he shuddered and thrusted and heaved with his wild panting, as he tumbled, raced toward an orgasm made powerful by its long denial. He cried out, over and over. “Ohhh, look at you. I’m watching. I’m watching you. Show me. I want to see you come. I want to hear it. I want to feel it.” Mycroft bucked back against Greg’s hand.

“Do you want me to press like this?“ Greg rubbed light circles against Mycroft’s arse while pulling over and over at his cock. “Oh, god. Yes. Yes. Louder.” Mycroft shouted in ecstasy. “Louder. Louder. God, you’re so hard. Yes, come on. Show it to me.” 

The tension in Mycroft’s body was drawing up, tighter and tighter, his back bowed, receiving the stimulation from both of Greg’s hands at once. He shouted on every exhalation, shaking. “Let it go,” Greg whimpered, unable to take his eyes of him. “Let it go. Come on, Mycroft. You’re going to come so hard,” he said, as Mycroft’s entire body trembled with furious tension. Then his hips began to jerk. “_Ohhhhh… Yeahhh, there you go. There you go.”

Mycroft had crested the edge of the tension and dropped head-on into an orgasm that appeared to rock him to the core. His hips kicked forward and on each convulsion he ejaculated an obscene amount of semen. Greg groaned, and his eyes flickered back for a moment in sympathy. “Oh, look at all that. Ohhh, look at all that. I’ve never seen someone come that much.” Mycroft’s spine arched on each convulsion, wrenched with spasms, shuddering and moaning. “God, it just keeps coming. God, you’re so beautiful. God, look at you. You turned yourself inside out for me. All over the bed.” Greg trailed his fingers through the mess on the sheets and pulled Mycroft’s cock, working him slickly, dragging out the pleasure. “Come on, just a little more. Just a little. That’s it. Ohh, _yesss_.” Mycroft whimpered as the violent shudders flipped from pleasure into an excess of stimulation. Greg pulled both hands free, allowing Mycroft to collapse to the mattress and twitch blindly with aftershocks.

Greg knelt next to Mycroft’s shuddering body and stroked his own cock with a hand slick with Mycroft’s semen. “Ohhh,” he groaned, then started jacking himself in earnest, his movements a blur, desperate for climax. He looked down at Mycroft, who was looking up at him, sweating and flushed pink, gasping for air. His eyes were huge. Greg caught his gaze and before he expected it the dense pleasure in his groin collapsed then exploded outward into a shocking orgasm. It was like a thunderclap, a soul-wringing squeeze that brought with it a series of bone-deep contractions. He shot himself into Mycroft's face, feeling a filthy, dark pleasure at the sight of Mycroft's jaw striped with come. He aimed into Mycroft's mouth but missed, instead laying pulse after pulse of semen across his cheeks and lips and chin. Greg moaned at the sight. Something in his chest growled and clawed at him—something marrow-deep and raw. When Mycroft opened his mouth wider and stuck his tongue out, Greg laid the remaining spasms of semen right into Mycroft's mouth.

"Ohhh, christ. Oh, jesus christ…" Greg held on and just shuddered as his system tried over and over to squeeze out one more pulse of pleasure. He was wracked with it, battered with it, and for the last few tremors he took his balls in his hand and pulled.

He exhaled a grunt, then another, his nervous system jangling. Mycroft flailed his hand up to Greg's shoulder and pulled. Greg collapsed down on top of him to grind and writhe, floating in the last waves of ecstasy.

Mycroft took Greg's head in both hands for a sloppy kiss. Greg's semen smeared between their mouths but he just couldn’t care; his brain was offline, nothing but grey static and hormones and bliss all the way from his scalp to the tips of his toes.

As one they fell unmoving, Mycroft on his back and Greg slumped gracelessly across his left shoulder. Their breathing evened out. Greg dozed, unable to feel his leaden limbs.

* * *

He blinked awake some time after to find himself drooling on the duvet near Mycroft's shoulder. There was dried semen flaking off Mycroft's cheeks.

"What the…" Greg groaned as feeling returned to his muscles. He looked at Mycroft, but he seemed occupied with staring at the ceiling, blinking, wide-eyed.

Greg didn't really blame him. _What the fuck just happened?_

"I'm not entirely sure," Mycroft said, answering Greg's unfinished question. He sounded a million miles away.

"Are you, erm. Okay?"

Mycroft twitched an arm up as if to hug him, but it barely lasted a second before it flopped back to the mattress. He looked knackered, and shocked, and something about his manner twinged in Greg's chest. “I’m fine.”

“Better now?”

Mycroft coughed out a short laugh. He dragged his fingers lazily through Greg’s hair. “You could say that. You?”

“Much, thanks.”

They lay there in silence for a few moments before Mycroft spoke. “I should shower.”

“Me too.”

“Feel free to go first.”

“No, you go. I want to lay here for a moment and…bask.”

Chuckling, Mycroft pressed a kiss to Greg’s forehead then rolled unsteadily from the bed with a groan. He stretched, and Greg made no effort to hide his stare. The way Mycroft’s narrow ribcage lifted away from his hips and belly was…pleasant, and his cock looked wobbly and inoffensive, limp in its nest of curls. He looked so average standing there rolling his shoulders with a grimace on his face, this notable man with above-average everything, and Greg felt a warm pang of affection. Mycroft caught his eye and raised an eyebrow.

“Go shower,” Greg said with playful venom.

Mycroft said nothing, amusement playing about the corners of his mouth, and disappeared into the en suite. Greg flopped flat on his stomach to bury his face in Mycroft’s pillow and breathe. Everything felt achy and worn-out and _glorious._

Greg turned his face to look at the closed door to the en-suite and listened to the sound of Mycroft splashing in the shower. He wondered what Mycroft looked like in there, wondered how hot he liked the water, wondered just how adorable he looked with his hair sodden and slicked back from his face. He pressed his face into Mycroft’s pillow again and waited for his turn.

Eventually Mycroft came out wrapped in a dressing gown, pink-skinned and smelling gorgeous. They slid past each other not saying a word, trading oddly-shy glances, and Greg closed the door behind him.

After his shower, when Greg tumbled back into bed, Mycroft rolled over and blinked his eyes awake. Then he gave Greg a rare smile—earnest, honestly-joyful, a slow grin that lit up his eyes and turned Greg's bones to treacle. Pressing through the sudden thickness in the air Greg leaned in and gently touched his lips to Mycroft's. “Thank you.”

“I really should be the one thanking you.” Mycroft tilted his head into a luxurious kiss and pressed Greg back into the bed. Greg slid his hands down Mycroft’s naked back and spread his buttocks apart with both hands just to tease him into a shudder. He soothed his hands down his sides, petting him.

“Do you feel better now?”

“Absolutely.”

Greg lay with Mycroft's face pressed against his neck, the strange weight of unfamiliarity sitting heavy in his chest and the flutter of restlessness twitching his limbs. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said, hesitance stilting his voice.

“As am I,” Mycroft said, and sleep finally pulled Greg under.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When his life had been a flurry of schoolbooks and little girl slumber parties and late nights at work, hurried dinners and outgrown shoes and last-minute projects, exhaustion and chaos, he never would have imagined he could miss it. But all these years later he was finding himself having to make a new life, to_ fill _a new life, and he couldn't for death or glory figure out how to begin._
> 
> Greg could make a decent evening of it, even alone. He didn't need his sometime-shag to keep him company. There was so much else going on as it was.
> 
> Sequel to [Opposition Party.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/866940)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to my betas Mazarin221B and HiddenLacuna and BilliethePoet, who are ridiculously patient with my naming shenanigans and always manage to make me laugh.

When Greg got the call, he was just getting out of the shower at his flat. He grabbed the mobile off the pile of magazines on the back of his toilet and dripped water all over the floor while trying to see who was ringing. It was DCI Briscoe. "Lestrade."

"Greg, your boy wonder is at it again."

"When is he not?"

She sighed. "Just save me from the inevitable paperwork, hm? I'm texting you an address. Get there soon, please."

"Fine."

“You know, it’s almost easier when we bring him in on cases from the beginning. I don't have to go through the song and dance with the constabulary to keep him from being arrested."

"Again."

She chuckled, but it was a weary one. "He's your fault, Greg. Go see what he's broken this time under the guise of 'fixing our shit'?"

He tried not to laugh and it ended up as a cough instead. He pinned the mobile against his ear and made an attempt at drying his hair. "Yeah, okay. I'll be there as soon as I can. Can you give me any other information?"

"Something about a landscaping job and DIY? Honestly, I don't have the foggiest. Fix it and write me up a nice story for your report? I'm still dealing with the fallout from that case at the mill.”

Greg smirked. "Thanks for thinking of me."

"He's _your fault._ "

Still laughing gently, Greg hung up and rolled his shoulders. They ached, but it felt really quite fabulous, and overall his body felt loose and vibrant and capable. There really was nothing like a good shag to clear out the rust and cobwebs, and the quality of shagging last night was _spectacular_. A tiny voice in the back of his head suggested it might have been some of the best sex he’d ever had.

Whatever this day threw at him, he was positive he could handle it.

* * *

"I spoke too soon."

"Hmm?" John asked as Greg walked up, having dismissed the confused PC who’d been summoned by the nosy woman across the street. John was standing on the pavement in front of the house, presumably distancing himself from the chaos Sherlock was perpetrating in Joe Amberley’s back garden while the man was not home. 

“Nothing.” Greg waved it away. “So who, exactly, got you this warrant?"

John cast him a look.

"You DO have a warrant, don't you?"

"Why would we need a warrant?"

"John—"

" _He_ hired us."

"Who did?"

"Amberley."

"Amberley hired you."

"To search for his missing wife and her lover."

Greg pinched between his eyes and felt a laugh bubbling up. "For christ's sake. And Sherlock thinks they're, what? Shagging under the rhododendrons?"

John giggled. "You should be grateful Amberley isn't here. He makes Sherlock look modest."

"Arrogant?"

"Twat."

Greg snorted. “Talking of which. Erm. What was going on at that crime scene in the mill? With the gun?”

John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock had been on a tear about my lack of deductive skill, and we’d argued.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s enough.”

“Fair point.” Greg didn’t think that was the whole story, but he let it go.

John shifted his weight and changed the subject back to the case at hand. “Sherlock suspects Amberley is up to something.”

"Thus the landscaping?"

"Thus the landscaping."

"So what happens when Amberley comes back and finds out Sherlock dug up his garden?"

"I guess we'll find out, won't we?"

It was such a messy situation, and so typical for Sherlock, that Greg had to laugh or he might scream. He covered his face with his hand and started chuckling.

John said, "Well. At least you're in a good mood."

"Hm?"

"I'd expected a lot more shouting."

Greg started to explain that he chose to pick his battles, when it came to Sherlock, but at that moment the man himself came sauntering up to them.

"Lestrade, I need to exhume his pets. I presume there's paperwork they'll make me do."

"…What." Not again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If there’s evidence of animal abuse, that increases the likelihood he killed his wife and her lover. Aren't you paying attention? And stop _smiling_ like that. You're ruining my—" He stopped and peered closer at Greg's face, his eyes skittering along the exposed skin of Greg's neck and down to his hands. "Ugh." He flapped his hand in Greg's direction. "Forget it. I can’t deal with you right now."

"I've forgotten already."

Sherlock made the huffy noise of a teenager and stomped off to the side of the house. John raised an eyebrow.

"Mycroft," Greg said with a twist of his mouth.

"Ahhh." John was trying not to laugh at them. "Did you have a date last night?"

"It wasn't a—" Greg sighed. "Yes, we had a date last night.” It tasted like somewhat of a lie.

"How's that going?"

"I have no idea."

"Fair enough." John crossed his arms in front of him to watch the Sherlock circus. "He's an odd bloke."

"Sherlock?"

"Mycroft."

"Yes he is."

"Kind of… Kind of a berk. if you don't mind me saying."

"Kind of?"

John snorted. "So why bother?"

Greg raised an eyebrow at him and smirked. John shook his head, uncomprehending. Greg raised both eyebrows this time, and flashed them higher.

John blinked. "What the hell are you trying to tell me?"

So much for communion among men. “The sex is _phenomenal_.”

“Seriously?”

Greg smirked. “Yeah.”

“I just.” John's head tilted sideways and his face screwed up in disbelief. “I can’t…I’m sorry, I can’t picture it.”

“To be honest, I wouldn’t have been able to picture it either.”

"Seriously? _Mycroft?_ "

"Seriously."

"Sherlock's _brother_ Mycroft, with the sour expression and the arrogant smirk?"

"Mycroft."

“Phenomenal?”

“Filthy good.”

John blinked. “Wow.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever had sex this good.”

“…Okay, you can stop talking about it now."

Really, this was too entertaining. "I ache in all _sorts_ of places today."

"Please stop," said John, looking pained.

"He did this thing with—"

"I'm walking away now," John said. And he did; apparently the chance of being roped into Sherlock's possibly-rogue investigation of Amberley's house and garden was preferable to thinking about Mycroft having sex.

Greg envied him, almost, because for Greg the thought of Mycroft having sex was terribly, deliciously distracting. He felt himself sliding away into reverie, musing on the echo of tenderness of his shoulders from the strength in Mycroft's hands, and trying to remember the exact tenor of Mycroft's voice as he cried out nearing orgasm. He lost himself in reflection so deeply that he didn't even notice Sherlock and John until they stood directly in front of him. He shoved his dirty thoughts away and tried to focus.

"Hm?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you don't mind, I need you to drag your brain out of the gutter and follow me." He led them round the back of the house to a copse where several old, sturdy trees grew. He pointed straight up. "If you'll note, there are two knots of rope on the branch above us where a tire swing was once tied."

"That could have been there ages." Greg hoped he didn't look as flushed with arousal as he felt.

"No, it's relatively new. Barely rotted. And look at the growth pattern around it; up until two years ago, no branches were growing in the path of the swing."

"So he has a kid."

" _Had_ a kid." Sherlock held up his phone to show Greg a news article. "Marisa Peters, seven years of age when she went missing two years ago. Parents Eva and Joe Peters, wracked with grief."

"Sherlock," Greg said, "why didn't you point that out when I got here?"

"I didn't _know_ when you got here," Sherlock said. 

Greg looked at John, who seemed tight-lipped and ill, then narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying… Two years ago Joseph Peters and his wife changed their name to Amberley and erased all sign of their seven year old daughter, so thoroughly that even I missed it. Now, why would they do that?"

"Grief?" Greg imagined losing his daughter, not knowing what had happened to her except that she was gone from his life, and swallowed. Cases with dead children always made him feel ill, even with his daughter grown and gone.

"Come come, Inspector, _changing their names_? What would grief have had to do with it? No, I think their motivations were much more sinister. I think two years ago one or both of them killed their daughter, either purposefully or accidentally, and that murder has directly led to Eva Amberley's disappearance three days ago."

"Sherlock, why are you digging up the man's garden?"

"He had a suspicious number of Home Base receipts on his kitchen worktop."

"The hell?"

John cut in. "He's been doing a lot of DIY, and Sherlock had a hunch."

"And you sent him away so you two could search his house?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. He's away at a support group meeting."

"Oh good," Lestrade said, and John smirked at the sarcasm. "Well, unless you think you're going to be breaking more laws than usual, I'm going to leave you to it. Let me know when you have actual _proof_ you need me to follow up on, yeah? You find remains stuck up a tree, or something?"

Sherlock huffed with exasperation. "Come on, John. Let’s leave Lestrade to get his cup of coffee. It looks like had a hideously _rough night_." He spun and was in the house before Greg could find the words for a retort.

* * *

The rest of the day was a morass of dullness and paperwork, and Greg stayed so late his eyes began to cross.

He pinched the bridge of his noise, tried to drink from an empty cup of coffee, stopped himself from texting Mycroft twice, and gave up on trying to work. He went home to eat a sandwich and sleep the sleep of the dead.

The following morning, Greg was late. He rolled into work half an hour past when he'd planned, and had to deflect several stale jokes from the desk sergeant about the bags under his eyes and state of his hair. He really should cut it off; that would put paid to that nonsense.

He plopped down into his chair, stared at the mess of paperwork he'd abandoned last night, and began seriously to regret some cascading life decisions he'd made around year 10.

His mobile rang.

"Hmm?" he said, fumbling it out of his coat pocket just before it went to voice mail. "Er, Lestrade?"

"My, you sound chipper this morning," came Sherlock's disgustingly-bright voice down the phone.

"What do you have for me?"

"That depends. Can you be at Amberley's house at 9?"

Greg glanced at the clock. "Erm, sure. I guess so. Why, what did you figure out?"

"Might want to bring back-up."

"Sherlock, what did you find out?" But he'd already hung up. Greg tossed his phone onto the desk, rubbed the bleariness from his vision, and went to go queue things up for an arrest.

* * *

"Did he make the _ohhh_ noise this time?" Greg muttered under his breath to John. They were approaching Amberley's door, and Sherlock had eagerly stalked on ahead. 

"Huh?"

"The orgasm one. When he figured out the case."

"He did, yes."

"Is that a noise he actually makes in bed?"

John cast him a sideways glance. "As if I'm going to tell you."

"Did it give you the horn?"

"All right, I’ve changed my mind. If you don't stop asking, right now, I _will_ actually talk about it,” John warned.

Snorting, Greg lifted up his hands in submission, and John pulled ahead to catch up Sherlock.

* * *

Amberley was, it turned out, a complete and utter tosser. His long neck stretched longer as he tossed his head. "Why in hell would I have called you, if I had killed her?"

"Killed them," Sherlock said. "Killed _them_."

"Why would you think—"

Sherlock reached up and swiped a gloved finger across the top of the bookshelf. It came away white.

"So?" Amberly said, dripping with scorn. "We don't clean as often as we should."

"Not dust, Mr. Amberley. _Gypsum._ You've recently installed drywall. Why would that be?""

"I have as much a right as anyone to fix my home."

"Ah, but was it broken, or did you quickly need a bit of…expansion?"

Sherlock looked at Greg's blank look of incomprehension, then to John, who also wasn't getting the picture either. Amberley, however, seemed just as supercilious as before. "Oh _honestly_ ," Sherlock said on a gust of breath. "Look at the walls in the other rooms. This room is a good two feet smaller than it should be. Why? Because you had to hide the bodies of Eva Amberley and Ralph Malpus behind this wall here." He slapped his hand on it, and the drywall shuddered. Amberley winced. "Drywall is typically attached to the frame of the house, isn't it, Mr. Amberley. It's too bad you didn't have time to rip out the old wall, stash the bodies, and replace it. I might not have noticed." He took a big sniff. "Not before the smell of the paint faded and unmasked the smell of rot."

"Ridiculous," said Amberley.

"Is it?" Sherlock reached behind the bookshelf and pulled out a pickaxe. Amberley made a yelping noise and dove for him, but John caught him around the waist and tackled him to the ground. Sherlock swung, caught the freshly-painted wall, and ripped a big chunk out. The cloying scent of rotting flesh emanated from the hole.

"Ugh," Lestrade said, pulling out his handcuffs. "Sherlock, did you have to? We could have arrested him on suspicion and had a real team take care of that."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "But now you have _evidence_."

"Yeah, and the stench is going to be in my nostrils for a week. That was unnecessary."

"Oh, Amberley," Sherlock said with an exaggerated pout. "Two large adults are _so_ much more work to take care of than one small girl."

 _Oh my god._ "Sherlock," Greg said with dawning horror. "Where's the girl?"

Sherlock turned to him, and then joy sunk from his face. "They refinished their basement two years ago," he said, a quiet report that fell dully in the room. "You might have your team begin there."

* * *

Greg stood outside on the pavement, getting air and directing the swarm of police going over the house.

"Sherlock," he said. "If he killed them, why did he hire you to find her?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Oh, showing off I expect. He'd got away with it two years ago, so he didn't have any reason to think this time would be different."

" _He_ killed her? Not they?"

"Oh, no. I don't think she knew at all, until something happened recently to clue her in. Maybe to do with her taking a lover, or maybe not. He's the only one who knows, now."

They stood in silence for a few moments while the crew swirled around them.

"I have a question," John piped up. They both looked at him. "When in the _hell_ did you stash that pickaxe?!"

Sherlock smirked, but said nothing.

* * *

Walking back to his car, Greg found his mind wandering back to the idea of a missing daughter, of a murdered little girl, and his stomach clenched. So when he sat in his car, he took a deep breath and made a phone call.

"Hey sweetheart."

"Hey Dad. How are you?"

"Fine." He swallowed down the lump in his throat. "I'm fine. How are you?"

"I'm good. Heading out to a film marathon with some mates."

"That's good. What are you going to see?"

"Mostly some French shit you wouldn't know. Or care about." He heard the tease in her voice, and it helped. Just a little.

"How was the comedy festival?"

"It was amazing. AMAZING. I laughed so hard. You would have laughed your tits off."

He chuckled even as he admonished her. "Sharon…"

The sound of her giggle down the line made him smile even more. "What?"

"Did your friend's show do okay?"

"Yeah, she— Hold on." There was the muffled sound of her putting her hand over the mobile and shouting to someone, then she was back. "Listen, I'm sorry Dad, but Emily just got here and we've got to run. We're already going to be late."

"Wait. Are you skipping lectures for this?"

She laughed at him. "Dad, I'll phone you later. Eat something that's not pizza or Chinese, okay? I worry about your cholesterol. Mandy says— Ah, right, okay. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Love-you-bye…"

Greg held his mobile tightly in his hand and took a deep breath in. He let it out slowly, through pursed lips, wondering if they would actually talk tomorrow or not. She was busy, he knew, but sometimes missing her felt like a bruise he constantly banged up against when he wasn't paying attention. For a moment he actually considered buying train tickets and going up there just to have a drink and meal with her, then decided that was probably creepy. She worried about him, sure, but there were probably limits, and having your dad visit you at uni for an evening was likely one of them.

But what the hell did he know? There was no road map for this shit.

Greg tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. Enough. It was past time he got back to work.

* * *

Late in the afternoon, bored with the filing of reports and processing of files, Greg steeled his nerves and made a telephone call.

"Hello," Mycroft said warmly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"To the fact that a creepy arsehole is freshly incarcerated, and I might abandon this stack of files—which, by the by, your brother has left me with because he seems allergic to doing paperwork—to have a celebratory dinner and retire early to my bed. I am requesting your presence for both these activities. You do still owe me."

"I owe you?"

"Yes. From the way you acted at Baskerville."

“Ah, yes. That.”

“You were a twat and a half.”

"I am aware."

"So will you?" Greg said.

"Will I?"

"Accept the request for your presence _tonight_ , to make up for your being a spectacular arse at Baskerville."

"Much as any invitation involving the phrase, 'spectacular arse' becomes more compelling from your lips, I'm afraid I can't spare the time tonight."

"Ah." _Dammit_. "Work?"

"I have a committee meeting at my club which I'm afraid I can't miss."

Greg briefly considered letting it alone, but for some reason continued to press the issue. "And, er… Afterward?"

"Back to work, alas."

"Ah. Well. No harm in asking."

"No indeed." There was silence for a few moments. Greg prodded the stack of paper on his desk. Mycroft added, "But I assure you: had I the time, I would have gladly joined you."

Greg quirked a small smile. "Thanks."

Silence drew out the next few seconds, then Mycroft said, "I apologise, Gregory, but I have several things that need doing before my meeting on the hour."

"Right. Sorry. I'll…" Greg sighed. "Have a good evening, Mycroft."

"I sincerely doubt it, but thank you."

He sounded doubtful, too, Greg thought after they'd both hung up and Greg had tossed his mobile onto his desk. He scrubbed his face over his hands.

It would be hypocritical to be out of sorts about this; it's not as if Greg himself had an easygoing schedule. But if he was honest, there was a level of frustrated crankiness rising in his chest, and he felt more than a little lost. He'd really been looking forward to a meal and some thorough sex, and the night stretched out long and empty ahead of him without the entertainment of Mycroft's company.

Greg considered his options while he swept on his jacket and turned off the light to his office. He could wash his mug in the morning, could organise the papers strewn across his desk after a night's sleep, and maybe when he was less exhausted he'd have more energy to write the three reports he had stacking up in his backlog. He nodded decisively as he put on his gloves against the nippy autumn air. Greg could make a decent evening of it, even alone. Of course he could. A beer or two, a book, maybe something satisfying with noodles... He didn't need his sometime-fuckbuddy to keep him company. He was good enough company as it was. Absolutely.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Greg nodded goodbye to the desk sergeant and headed home.

* * *

Greg answered his phone later that night.

“Hey sweetheart,” he said, setting aside his book and getting comfortable on the sofa. “How was the film thing?”

“Fair to middling,” Sharon said. “We left early.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“S’okay.” He could almost hear her shrug. “We stopped off and got sushi afterwards, and that was good.”

"I'm still sorry you're disappointed."

"Eh. There will be more. And Angela's bit was good, which made it worth it."

"What was it about?"

"Are you sure you want to know?"

Greg thought about that for a second. The last time Sharon had told him about film school, she had been directing a farce about a serial killer, and it had hit a little too close to home. Apparently the affinity for this sort of darkness ran in the family. "Er, sure?"

She snickered, presumably at the doubt in his voice. "Local restaurant starts serving human meat and begins getting rave reviews."

He rolled his eyes. "It's a comedy, I'm guessing."

"Of course."

"You are a terrible person."

"I _know_ ," she said, leaving off the _isn't it great?_

He couldn't help laughing at that. He took a swig of his beer.

"So what are you doing?"

 _Pouting because I'm not getting laid._ "Reading."

"What book?"

"11/22/63."

"Liking it?"

He shrugged, as if she could see it. "It's alright."

"You're aware that if you don't like a book you can just read something else, right? You won't hurt its feelings."

"How do you know?"

She laughed at him. "I have a hunch."

"Give me evidence, and then we'll see."

She laughed harder. "And did you have something with a vegetable for supper?"

"Yes I did, thank you very much for checking up on me, Nurse Ratchet."

"Pasta sauce doesn't count."

"There was broccoli and baby corn and some sort of red pepper thing."

"And MSG and noodles and sodium-filled soy sauce?"

"You're not my keeper," he said, only half joking.

She didn't seem to take it as a joke, however. "Sometimes I wonder whether you don't need one."

He sighed. "I'm fine, sweetheart."

"Are you going out? Meeting people?"

"It's a little early for that, isn't it?"

"You signed the divorce papers a month ago."

"See?" He held up a hand. "It's only been a month."

"After a year of…well. I don't really want to know the details, but every time I was home you guys were miserable." Greg picked at a seam on his pyjama bottoms. "I just want you to be happy, Dad."

"Why aren't you five anymore?"

" _Dad._ "

"Jesus." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Do we have to talk about this?"

She sighed at him. "I'm just saying."

He could do it. He could tell her about Mycroft, how he has a friend he's spending time with, but…they weren't dating, not really, and it would feel dishonest to use him just to get Sharon off his back. Plus, it would move her impression of him as someone who would date a guy from the theoretical into the practical, and he wasn't sure he was ready for that yet. Even if she'd just said she wanted him to be happy.

Ugh. Why did he even pick up the phone tonight? "When there's something to tell you on that front, I'll let you know. Okay?"

"That's all I'm asking."

He snorted. "That's not _all_ you're asking."

"Listen, turnabout is fair play."

"I'm entering the next Stage of Man; is that what you’re saying?”

"’Old Age’."

"Gumming my food?"

She giggled. "I'll hire a nurse to change your nappies when the day comes. I'm not doing it."

"I changed yours!"

"Do you really want me doing it?"

"I want you to stay the hell away from me." She laughed. "Lord knows what you'd do. Get a film crew in and make a docudrama."

She cracked up. "No one wants to see that."

"I hope not," he got out through his laughter, and when it calmed he curled into the sofa. "When are you coming for a visit?"

"I dunno," she said. "I've got some major projects due this term."

"You can work on them here. London! City of stuff! And locations!"

"I won't work if I'm there and you know it."

He did. Still: "You would."

"No I wouldn't. I'd be doing everything but. Dragging your old arse out to eat and making you enjoy culture."

"And vegetables."

"Exactly. You don't want that nonsense."

He sighed. "If you're sure."

"Listen, when this term is over I'll come down there and we can go to the pub. Yeah?"

"Okay." He missed her with an ache that haunted his chest. “There's some vegan frou-frou place opened up a few streets away that you might like."

"You'd do that for me?"

"I'd do anything for you."

"I love you, too."

"Go do your work."

“And you go to bed."

He looked over his shoulder at the clock. "It's not that late."

"Old men go to bed early."

He couldn't hold down the laugh that bubbled up. "I'm not talking to you anymore."

"Could have fooled me."

"Good night, sweetheart."

"'Night, Dad."

For a while Greg just stayed there, his hands caging his phone against his chest, and felt the emptiness of his flat echo hollow and spare around him. When his life had been a flurry of schoolbooks and little girl slumber parties and late nights at work, hurried dinners and outgrown shoes and last-minute projects, exhaustion and chaos, he never would have imagined he could miss it. But all these years later he was finding himself having to make a new life, to _fill_ a new life, and he couldn't for death or glory figure out how to begin. An endless series of quiet nights alone on the sofa with a book and a microwaved meal stretched out before him in his mind, so after only a few seconds of imagining that misery he gritted out a noise of frustration and shoved off the sofa. "That's enough of that," he said.

Maybe Sharon was right. He was getting old and becoming needlessly moribund. Maybe he should just get off his arse and go to bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greg stared at the blurry still on his phone dry-mouthed, shocked, and at a complete loss for what to do. His brain was threatening to go offline, flickering in a staticky way between replaying the audio and video in one part while wondering what the fuck he just watched with another._
> 
> _To be fair, he knew perfectly well what he'd just watched. And his body did too; Greg's heart was racing, his hands were unsteady, and he was so turned on it ached._
> 
> Mycroft throws down a gauntlet. Greg responds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to my betas Mazarin221B and HiddenLacuna and BilliethePoet, with whom beta-ing a chapter is much like cackling together at 3am in a small room full of bonobos, with one bottle of vodka down and one to go. But in a good way.

Several days later Greg came back from lunch with a salad—thinking of Sharon all the way—and as he was getting out his mobile to send her a photo it pinged with an incoming text.

`What I did before my long, important, afternoon meeting.`

Mycroft hadn't signed it, which was odd, and Greg had no idea what he was talking about, which was odder. But then there was an incoming video, so Greg hit play.

And then immediately paused it, eyes wide. _No._

He got up and closed the door to his office, turned the lock quietly, then sat back down and hid the mobile below the level of the desktop. He hit play again.

Mycroft must have somehow managed to rig the phone hands-free near his face, because the video was shot down the front of his body to where his trousers were parted and he was masturbating with both hands. His breath was loud in the microphone as he huffed shakily on every exhalation. Greg could see his chest and belly move with the force of it. As he watched, Mycroft rolled his balls with one hand and used the fingertips of the other to gently stroke along the shaft and all over the head. He'd clearly been at it a while; his cock was dark, flushed, and even though the shake of the camera blurred the focus Greg still could tell how wet it was. His hands were more beautiful than ever this way: deft and graceful, long-fingered and slim. Mycroft teased himself until his cock jerked and he moaned. It was loud enough for the sound to distort in Greg's speaker.

Greg looked around in fear, as if someone could hear through the closed door. He considered turning it down a little, but the rasping sound of Mycroft's breath was getting Greg so hard so fast he was almost dizzy with it. So he continued watching.

Apparently Mycroft was finished teasing because at that point he got down to business. He closed his fist around his cock and pulled light and fast, just as Greg knew he liked it, and the filthy wet noise made Greg groan. Mycroft's other hand continued to play with his bollocks, then shoved down between his legs and pulled up, slowly, the strain cording his forearm as he awkwardly twisted his wrist to push in on his perineum and up between his balls.

Mycroft's breath sped as his hand did, and it became a little grunt caught in his throat, then a half-moan, and soon he was pulling hard on his sack and his hand blurred pink in the tiny video frame and the sound became a bitter, shocking series of whines.

Then all at once Mycroft's hand slowed. He moaned loudly enough for the speaker to crackle, his hips curled up, and Greg couldn't take his eyes away from the way Mycroft's fist tightened around his cock, now so dark it was almost purple. The video jerked as Mycroft came, spreading his legs wider and aiming forward as he spasmed. His hand began moving again slowly after the crest of it was over, drawing his orgasm out into convulsions as he moaned quietly. Mycroft gave one massive shiver and settled back into his chair again, and Greg could see his chest heaving. The video had settled enough, too, for him to see that Mycroft had ejaculated all over the front of his desk, semen spattering the top and threatening to run down the polished oak face of it and ruin Mycroft's trousers. Mycroft let out one last satisfied groan and swiped his fingers through the mess, and that's when the video cut off.

Greg stared at the blurry still on his phone dry-mouthed, shocked, and at a complete loss for what to do. His brain was threatening to go offline, flickering in a staticky way between replaying the audio and video in one part while wondering what the fuck he just watched with another.

To be fair, he knew perfectly well what he'd just watched. And his body did too; Greg's heart was racing, his hands were unsteady, and he was so turned on it ached.

_Mycroft, you filthy, beautiful fucker._

The problem was, Greg had only just come back from a lunch break, and he couldn't just disappear for a wank, and his office had windows, and… _fuck._ Greg looked down and stared at the telltale bulge pressing up against the leg of his trousers on his right thigh. He took a deep breath, carefully placed both hands and his mobile on top of his desk, and dug his fingers into the veneer until his knuckles turned white.

Mycroft. Had sent him. A wank video.

 _Oh god._ Just thinking about it made Greg twitch harder, which was exactly the effect he _didn't_ want. Arousal electrified his body and he could feel it everywhere: lips, hands, the nape of his neck, his stomach, his thighs. He felt weak with it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this turned on with no recourse, no way for any release.

Mycroft wasn't the only one who had a meeting that afternoon, either, though Greg thanked whatever deities were listening that his wasn't for another hour. This had to subside before then. It just had to. There was nothing for it.

Greg took several steadying breaths, which didn't work, and took a sip of cold coffee, which sort of did. What a fucking arsehole. This was torture.

He picked up his phone, turned in his chair to catch the daylight slanting from the window, and took a picture of the state of his lap. _God,_ what an arsehole. This was going to be an unbearable hour. He texted the photo to Mycroft with the caption, "This is what you've done. And I can't do a thing about it."

It took him forty-five minutes to force down his salad, as roiling as his stomach was, and by then he no longer had an erection. But arousal still fizzed in his blood, and Greg had no illusions about the hazy state of his mind for the rest of the day. Maybe he could cut out early. Go home. Have the most satisfying wank he'd had since he was twenty. Curse Mycroft's name.

Greg shivered. Bastard. Fucking horrible, gorgeous, sexy, filthy bastard. Greg smiled in spite of himself. Damn the man. He'd given Greg a fantasy that would endure an awfully long time, but done it in the most calculated, frustrating way possible. Leave it to him to be so complicated.

And now it was time to get to work.

Damn the man.

* * *

Greg walked into his flat and stood there at a loss.

He was starving—desperately hungry, in fact—but the thought of Mycroft’s video had sat heavily all day, and the threat of an erection had never quite receded. There'd been no reply to Greg's picture all afternoon. It was probable Mycroft was still in Middle East Peace Talks or rewriting the national budget or whatever the fuck he was doing.

When put that way, Greg wouldn't have wanted to sit through a six hour meeting with a tight knot of stymied arousal like the one currently sitting in his gut, so perhaps it was understandable that Mycroft had chosen release before it had begun. And with Mycroft's undeniable relish for being watched, perhaps knowing that Greg would be viewing the video later made it better for him.

 _Watching_ the video wasn’t exactly torturous for Greg, either. He mentally replayed the moment Mycroft tilted his hips and intentionally came all over his desk, and it made Greg’s eyes roll back.

With that, his decision was made. Food would have to wait. He could order in after he'd come.

He shed his clothes on the way to the bedroom, then turned round and grabbed his phone from the pocket of his trousers. Turnabout was fair play, and all was fair in…well. _Lust_ and war, at any rate. Greg was going to get his own back, whether Mycroft was still in a meeting or not.

By the time Greg climbed onto his bed he was already half hard. He propped his phone on a few pillows to get as good an angle as possible and lay back. Before the main event Greg wanted to establish proof of concept, so he stroked his thighs and his stomach for a few minutes before pausing the recording and checking to see if the video was still in frame.

It wasn't. At some point the bed had jogged the phone enough to knock it sideways, and the last half a minute was a very charming shot of the bit of damp on Greg's ceiling.

He deleted it. Then he flopped back onto the bed in thought.

There had to be a way to steady it beyond sellotaping the phone to the wall. It needed to be over his shoulder and steady, unaffected by any movement of the bed. It needed to be— Ah.

Greg rolled off the bed and toddled toward the bath bearing his phone and a nascent erection. He grabbed a roll of duct tape from the cupboard on the way. Then he stood in the doorway and contemplated his plan.

A pad or two of duct tape should keep it from sliding, he thought. And with the lights on it would be plenty bright enough to make a good shot. The tub wasn't particularly dirty, either, which was a godsend, because there was no way on god's green earth he was scrubbing down his bath with his cock bobbing eagerly between his legs. He assessed the situation. _Yes. This could work._

If it was going to go really well, however, best go all out. So Greg went back to his bedroom and returned to the bath with his bottle of lube. He jiggled the bottle in front of the light, gauging the amount left, nodded, and climbed into the tub with it.

It was less awkward then he'd have expected, setting everything up. In a trice he had the phone propped on the edge shooting down over his body, secured to the wall with duct tape, and he had wriggled into a relatively comfortable position—as comfortable as he could be in the confinement of a cold, empty bath with one leg up over the side.

The lengthy preparation had given his body something to prepare for, it seemed, and time in which to do it. He was almost shaking with sublimated arousal, his heart thudding in his ears. There wasn't much exhibitionism in Greg's past, but he had to admit to a frisson at the idea of Mycroft watching him get off. He desperately hoped Mycroft would like the show.

Greg took a deep breath and began recording.

He started again where he had started in bed: stroking his skin, dancing his fingertips over the hair on his thighs, over the greying trail on his lower belly, scraping them through the coarse hair at his groin. He imagined they were Mycroft's hands—those slim, gorgeous hands—and let out a small groan. The sound echoed in the tiled room. It sounded amazing.

Greg looked down his body at his cock, at the way it twitched impatiently every time his hands neared it. It pulled a moan from his throat.

"Ohhh, god Mycroft," he murmured, and scraped his fingernails through the downy hair in the soft join of his thigh and arse. Between the sound of his voice, amplified and echoing and so aroused, and the gentle scratch of his fingernails, he was rapidly reaching the point where he was going to have to move on to the next stage in the game. But first— "You are a wicked, wicked man. Do you know how turned on you made me? At work? I was so damn hard. It lasted for ages. A man of my age shouldn't have to deal with that sort of nuisance. I had to eat lunch, hard in my pants, tenting my trousers under my desk, trying not to remember the sound of you coming because every time I did all I could think about was coming too. And I couldn't."

Greg groaned and gave up teasing himself. He snagged the lube and poured it out directly onto his cock. It leaped at the contact.

"So now I finally get to. It's been hours, Mycroft. I've needed to come for _hours_. You turned me on and just let me sit there. That was incredibly rude of you. Don't worry. I'll find a way to repay you." His hand closed around his cock and he gasped. "Ohh, but not right now. No." He let out a plosive breath as he began stroking. "No, now I'm going to show you what you did to me."

His hand felt fucking stunning. The pleasure was bright and thick after so much lead-up, after so much denial. He squeezed his eyes shut and started panting. "Oh christ," he gritted out. "Thank god."

With his free hand Greg resumed stroking his skin everywhere he could touch—inner thigh, perineum, stomach—but when he grazed his nipple he felt the shock all the way down to his groin.

"Oh, I see it's one of those nights," he told Mycroft. He brushed his nipple again and groaned with the pleasure of it. "You've gotten me really worked up, Mycroft. Watch this."

Greg let go of his cock and used both hands to play with his nipples instead, twisting them gently, flicking his nails over them, pinching them so hard he fancied they might bruise. His breath stuttered at every bit of contact and he cast an eye down towards his cock, watching it react to the play of his fingers. He flicked a thumbnail over his nipple and watched his cock jump, then did it once more. "I could almost come from this, I bet,” he said through clenched jaws, through his rasping breath. He flicked both nipples and made a bestial sound as he throbbed harder.

"Look," he said, and reached down to touch his fingers to the head of his cock. They came away wet. He held them up to the camera. "This isn't lube. I'm starting to leak. This is how turned on I am. You did this."

Greg started slicking his hand over himself once more, and his breath shuddered in his throat. "Ohh," he groaned. "No more teasing. No more teasing." He let his head tilt back against the side of the tub and was immediately aware of the rising tide of his orgasm.

"This won't—ngh. This won't be as plentiful as you were last time. I haven’t been holding out for a fortnight. But. Oh _christ_ , Mycroft, this is going to feel so good. I'm already— I'm already getting there. I can feel it. God this feels so good. I've been thinking about this all day. Thinking about you all day. Thinking about how hard you looked, hot and hard, and thinking about you coming all over your desk. You filthy fucker. Oh god I want you so badly right now. I want to put your cock in my mouth and suck. I want to taste you, hot in my mouth. I want to flick my tongue against your arse. I want to feel you tremble. I want to make you whimper. Push back against my mouth. Beg. I want to hear you scream as you come. God, I want to make you come. I love it when you come. God, it's like… It's like it’s pouring out of everywhere, like it's pushing past something and the release is… Ngh, god. You let go. You let go and it's just bliss, your whole body is just… _bliss_. Fuck, I wish it felt that good when I come. I wish I could feel what you feel. Oh fuck, Mycroft. Oh god, I can feel it. Oh god I'm going to come. Watch me. Watch me. Watch—"

Greg's body arched up off the floor of the bathtub as every muscle in his body seized and he scrabbled for a handhold on the slick tile. He flailed out wide and caught at the soap holder to anchor himself in place and he dropped like stone into an orgasm that wracked him from head to toe. The first pulse flew over his shoulder, and the rest shot all over his stomach, his chest, and the wall of the tub. He slicked his hand over his cock as the spasms continued to shake him, and he suddenly became aware of the fact that he was making an awful lot of noise in such a small room.

Still, he groaned and clutched hard at his cock with the last contractions. His eyes fluttered back into his head. "Oh, god yes. Oh, _god_ yes. Ohhh." His chest heaved with his rapid breath, and he inhaled slowly only to let it out all in one rush. " _Oh_ that was good." He shuddered with an aftershock.

He lay still for several more thuds of his heart before swiping his hand over his chest. “Holy shit.” There was semen on the tub wall, dripping down onto his shoulder. Greg swiped at it, and the spatter on the other wall, then ran his hand through the mess on his stomach. He held his fingers up to the camera. "This is your fault. I hope you enjoyed that." He tried to inject some venom into his voice, but he was a bit too shagged out to muster much energy for it. He swallowed. _You would have enjoyed it more if you were here,_ he suddenly thought, and all his shenanigans began to seem a bit hollow. He used a clean finger to prod off the camera and sighed.

A shower was necessary. Greg moved his phone to the counter and stood under the spray for ages, letting the hot water beat down on his back. After all the lead-up, the orgasm had drained him, and now he just felt…listless. Empty. Images of what he’d just done filled his mind, and they echoed throughout his chest just as his cries had echoed off the tile. He tried to shake it all off but it wouldn't budge. 

Out in his bedroom Greg sat on his bed to look at his phone. He stared at the screen for a long time, his mind not really focussing on any one thing. He sat and he felt a swirl of nameless emotion, unable make up his mind whether to send the file or not. Then, all of a sudden, as if he'd snuck up upon it only looking at the decision from the corner of his eye, he pressed the 'send' button.

It popped up with an error message.

The file was too big to text.

Greg collapsed back on his bed with relieved laughter. Well, that figured. Greg considered giving up, but he had made his decision (however obliquely), and now that the decision was made he was going to stick with it.

He sat up and tried again using his email. His heart thudded in his mouth as he pulled up Mycroft's address. Only for a moment did his thumb hover over the send button, and then it was done, off away and unable to be rescinded. Hopefully it wouldn't bounce. He didn't think he had the resolve in him to try a third time.

* * *

When Greg's phone pinged he was so sidetracked by his pizza he nearly jumped out of his skull. Hand pressed over the thud in his chest, he looked at the screen. Mycroft. The thudding increased in speed and power.

"Hi," he said softly.

" _Gregory_."

Greg's stomach squeezed at the desperate tone of Mycroft's voice. "Hello.” Shyness fluttered as a thready pulse in his palms.

"You shouldn't have done that." Mycroft's voice broke on the last word.

"Why? Do you have to go sit through a meeting like I did this afternoon?"

"You sent it over an unsecured channel, Gregory. It could become troublesome for both of us."

Greg’s stomach plunged through the floor. But… "You sent something to me first."

"Secured channel." Over the line, Mycroft swallowed hard.

“Oh. Shit, that’s…shit. Sorry.”

“Hopefully it will come to nothing.”

“One can hope.”

They sat in silence. Greg prodded his slice of pizza, but his stomach was a bit too turned over to eat it.

“ _Gregory_ ,” Mycroft whispered.

“Did you like it?” Greg said to him, letting the hush in his voice match Mycroft’s.

“I don’t think I could possibly say how much.”

“Are you at home now?”

“Yes.”

“You could have come over here.”

“I hadn’t been invited.”

“You should start inviting yourself, on nights when I’m home.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” Greg swallowed. “I would have…enjoyed your company.”

“I’m not sure if I’m more disappointed that I couldn’t have been there in person, or pleased that I wasn’t so you’d send me that gift.”

“I think the right answer is that you’d rather have been here in person.” Greg rubbed his lower lip repeatedly, back and forth, back and forth, until the nerves in the skin began to numb from the constant stimulation.

“I think you’re probably correct,” “Mycroft said. “I would very much have liked to have been there.”

“I think the person you were meant to be in a meeting with might have objected.”

“There’s no ‘might’ about it.”

“And I definitely would object to any of them being here.”

“But not me.”

Greg let that sit there a moment. “No, not you.”

They sat quietly for a few moments more. “Gregory, are you available tomorrow night?”

“Yes,” Greg said, but then frowned. “Er. Fuck. Wait. I have a football match after work.”

“Would you come over afterward?”

There wasn’t the barest chance of him saying no. “Yes.” Greg made a quiet noise of desire in his throat.

He could hear Mycroft respond with a sharp inhale. “Good. That’s… That’s good.”

“It will be.” Silence fell between them as Greg let his mind wander to imagining just what they could get up to. “Don’t wear yourself out tonight,” he said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean save some for me tomorrow, yeah?” Greg imagined Mycroft spread-eagled on his bed, all those miles of soft skin begging to be touched. Greg’s mouth felt very dry and his hands very empty.

“Ah.” Mycroft swallowed loudly. “I shall endeavour to restrain myself.”

There were a whole host of responses to that which flooded Greg’s mind, but he bit back every single one of them while pocketing away the mental image of Mycroft tying himself to the headboard. “Please do,” he said instead. “One orgasm each today. We can parcel them out like sweets.” There was dry laughter coming over the line. “What?” Greg said, and he smiled.

“Ah,” Mycroft said. “I hate to disappoint you, but if your plan is to drive up the worth of our encounters by keeping orgasms at a premium, you are quite misjudging the effect your email had on me and the effect you will likely have on me tomorrow.”

“Oh, I see,” Greg said, and a thrill shot down through the very centre of him. Was he saying what Greg thought he was saying?

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I’ve had a very active day.”

“When you got home?”

“Immediately. And then I phoned you.”

“…Oh.”

“It was imperative.”

“I know the feeling.”

Charged silence wove around them before Greg spoke again. “So does that mean you’re—“

“Lying naked in my bed, yes.”

Greg wished he were there with a strength that shocked him. Once again he called up the image of all Mycroft’s skin on display at once, this time flushed to the chest and panting and licking come off those beautiful fingers. “It’s been far too long."

“I’m so very sorry. Truly.”

“Tomorrow you can make it up to me.”

“I will do my best.”

After a moment, Greg sighed. “Do I need to let you clean up?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “That might be wise.”

“Er, okay. Thank you for…phoning me."

"Gregory?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you. You've made my day immeasurably better."

For some reason, Greg didn't think he was only talking about the orgasms. He smiled. "You're welcome."

"I will see you tomorrow.”

“You will.”

“Goodnight, Mycroft.”

“Goodnight, Gregory.”

After Mycroft rang off, Greg stretched full-length on the sofa and laid his phone on his sternum to think about his day. _Well, this is interesting,_ he thought. He hadn’t had any version of phone sex in years, and Mycroft was…he was surprisingly good at it. Greg grinned up at the ceiling and considered how to save Mycroft’s video for future use. He felt a thrill of something fluttery in his gut that felt like a small, strange form of arousal.

_How the fuck am I going to be able to wait for tomorrow night?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Mycroft had asked him to stay over. What were they going to do?_ Relax? _Recreate? So far all their interactions had revolved around food and sex, and not necessarily in that order. If they branched out—was it a date, now? Greg excoriated himself for not having thought this through before he agreed to come over so early in the evening._
> 
> The tide turns. The sand shifts under their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks go to my generous, wise, and very patient betas Mazarin221B and HiddenLacuna and BilliethePoet, without whom this whole thing wouldn't be possible.

They'd lost their football match. Again.

Sweating more than could be expected on such a chilly, grey evening, Greg dropped into his car and sucked down a mouthful from his water bottle. He rolled down the window when one of his mates walked up.

"Good game," Jared said, rubbing a towel all over his blond buzz cut.

Greg had to swallow before he could talk, so he nodded to buy himself some time. "How's your shoulder?"

Jared rolled it and shrugged. "I think it'll be fine. We'll see tomorrow, right?"

"An ibuprofen and some ice, man," Greg said. "We're getting old."

"Speak for yourself," Jared said, and pointedly ran a hand through his hair, smirking.

"Oh shut it," said Greg. He put his car in gear and rolled out, dialling and putting his phone on speaker.

"Gregory," Mycroft said, his voice tinny.

"Am I still coming over tonight?"

"Are you?"

Greg smirked. "Our game got out late and I don't think it makes sense for me to go back home first. Do you mind if— Is it imposing if I use your shower?"

"Not at all."

Either the breeze cooling the sweat or the warmth in Mycroft's voice caused Greg's arms to break out in gooseflesh. For a brief moment he envisioned Mycroft joining him in the shower— wondering what he would do, what he would say, would he be shy or reticent or bold—and then Greg forced the image from his mind in favour of driving. "Er, good. Thanks, I mean."

"It's not a problem in the slightest. I shall see you very shortly, then."

"Yes, yes. You _shall_ indeed, my good man," Greg said, taking the opportunity to tease him.

There was a beat of silence, and Mycroft said with a twist of humour, "Goodbye, Gregory."

"Bye." Greg felt the smile stretch his cheeks all the way to Mycroft's house.

* * *

Once inside, Greg let Mycroft take his coat while they flashed looks at each other like morse code. He caught Mycroft staring just a little too long, and sniffed a laugh. "What?"

"It's nothing."

" _What?_ "

"It's honestly nothing."

"Okay…" Greg shouldered his bag and headed for the stairway. "Which bath?"

"Mine, if you would," Mycroft called, dawdling for some reason before stepping up the stairs after him. Greg heard the footsteps only a split second before he felt his bag being lifted off his shoulder.

"I've got it," Greg said.

"You're my guest."

"But." Greg blinked. "Er."

"Indulge me," Mycroft said, and stepped past him on the landing to lead him to the en-suite off his bedroom as if Greg hadn't been there more than once before.

Mycroft pulled out a towel for him with all the grace of a magician. "Enjoy," he said, and hesitated, then stepped in close to press a kiss to Greg's cheek and inhale deeply.

A thread of suspicion twigged Greg's consciousness. When Mycroft moved away Greg followed. He slid a hand up Mycroft's hip and around to the small of his back, tugging him close. Their faces were within kissing distance, but instead Mycroft just tilted his head closer to Greg and breathed.

"Mycroft," Greg murmured against his temple. "Are you smelling me?"

"Would you rather I didn't?"

Warmth bloomed in Greg's stomach. "I reek. I was just playing football."

"'Reek' is not how I'd characterise it."

"How would you characterise it?"

"You smell of grass and the outdoors. Your t-shirt is warm and redolent of cotton and your sweat. The odour of your deodorant put up a valiant fight but gave up an hour or two ago, and the whole combination is _delicious_."

"You like the way I stink after a football match."

"And the way you look."

"A wreck?"

"Disheveled. Rough. A bit filthy, a bit shiny. Flushed with exertion and endorphins." At this, Mycroft made a tiny noise in his throat and leaned forward just enough so that his front brushed Greg's. "When I see you after a game, I must admit I'm always hard-pressed not to do awful things to you."

Bowled over, Greg could only blink at him. "But. But I need a shower."

Mycroft stepped back, looking away, his expression shuttering. "Yes. Of course."

Disappointment curled in Greg's gut, and more than a bit of shame. Mycroft had opened himself up the smallest bit, and for what? To be shut down by a dismissive comment? Trying to make up for it in some small way, Greg stepped in close and rumbled into Mycroft's ear. "Would you like to help?"

Mycroft's face was a blank. "I'll gladly help you undress," he said.

"Come on." Greg pulled him close and shut the door. It felt intensely intimate, shut in with Mycroft, even though the room was in no ways small. There was a double sink in there, after all, and a jacuzzi-style bathtub. Nonetheless, the air was quiet and still, and every rustle and breath echoed.

Mycroft turned on the shower as Greg settled his bag down and dug out a change of clothes. "I'd planned to go home in between, so I'm afraid I'll not be up to your standards of dress."

"What standards would that be?" Mycroft said, quirking an eyebrow and leaning back against the wall to watch Greg pull out several items of clothing.

"You know," Greg said, gesturing at Mycroft standing there in a waistcoat and neatly-pressed trousers. "That."

"I assure you, I do not hold you to the same standard I hold myself. In fact, I wouldn't even be offended if you chose not to wear anything at all."

Greg choked on air. "How selfless of you."

"Yes, I know." Mycroft stretched his neck like a particularly smug tortoise.

Grinning, Greg piled his clean clothes next to his neatly-folded towel and then stood in front of Mycroft, limbs akimbo, presenting himself as if on offer. "Well?"

"Ah yes," Mycroft said, stepping away from the wall. "Where should I begin?"

"Wherever you like, as long as I'm starkers by the end."

"This is better than Christmas."

A phrase bubbled up in Greg's mind—a traitorous thought, a dangerous quip. _A Gregory is for life, not just for Christmas_. Greg savagely bit it back. "Do you always take this long to open your presents?" he said instead.

"I do when it's something I've been anticipating."

"It's only been a few days."

"I think you vastly underestimate your appeal, Gregory."

"If I were actually appealing, you'd shower with me."

For a moment, Mycroft looked as if he were genuinely considering it, but he shook it away with a tilt of his head. "Not at the moment. I need to finish preparing supper while you get ready."

Greg blinked. "Did you actually cook?"

"Maybe," Mycroft said, preventing any immediate retort by stripping Greg's shirt over his head.

"Wait—really?"

"It's possible." Mycroft slid his thumbs into the waistband of Greg's bottoms and, with a quirk of his mouth, slid them down to his ankles.

"You forgot my trainers," Greg said.

"I did. You're right. How foolish of me," said Mycroft with an expression that led Greg to believe he hadn't really forgotten them at all.

Mycroft gracefully knelt down at Greg's feet like an acolyte. He nudged the shorts out of the way, untied the laces of both shoes, and Mycroft steadied Greg as he lifted his foot so he could step out of them. Greg kicked his shorts and pants out of the way.

Only the socks were left, now. Mycroft appeared to bring all his attention to bear on the problem, sliding his fingertips down into the cuff and stripping it inside out as he pushed it slowly, inch by inch, down Greg's ankle. Greg swallowed and licked his lips.

Mycroft removed the first sock and stroked the pads of his fingers up the arch of Greg's foot, to the inside of his ankle, and along his calf. The sensuality of it made Greg's mouth dry. "Next," Mycroft said, his voice a bit rough.

Greg looked up at the ceiling for stability as he lifted the other leg. Mycroft propped Greg's foot on his thigh and pulled the sock down gradually. Greg's pulse galloped in his palms and lips. He dared to look down as Mycroft finished pulling off the sock and was pinned there, locked in place by the heat in his eyes.

Mycroft stood. He was awfully close. "Finished," he said.

Greg looked at his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth, then his eyes again, and his chest spasmed with a shocking breath. He leaned in the two inches and took Mycroft's mouth in a filthy, squeezing, moaning kiss. Mycroft inhaled in surprise, then responded just as enthusiastically. His clothing felt glorious pressed against Greg's bare skin, the contrast between them heightened and exciting, and as he dug his hands into the back of Mycroft's shirt he felt Mycroft's hands fist in his hair and pull.

He was rocked by sensation, his body lit up by instantaneous arousal and already thickening against Mycroft's thigh. From the movements of Mycroft's hips, it was clear he was in the same boat. Surely, _surely_ Mycroft would join him in the shower now.

But apparently not, because after a few delicious moments of snogging Mycroft extricated himself. "I need to check on our meal," he said, his gaze levelled on Greg's mouth.

"It can wait."

"It really can't."

"What the hell is it? A soufflé?"

"Feel free to use anything in there," Mycroft said, gesturing towards the selection of bottles in the bath. His mouth was red, his hair a wild mess. He straightened his clothing as he gave Greg a hint of a smile. "I'll see you downstairs in a few minutes."

He disappeared and closed the door behind himself, and Greg's head fell loose on his neck as he blew out a breath. _Jesus christ._ Every damn time. It took nothing, nothing at all with Mycroft, and his hormones would rage like a teenager's. Greg inhaled slowly and let it out through pursed lips, trying to steady his trembling limbs and rapid heartrate. Why did his body respond so intensely to him? There had been times of tremendous lust in his life before, of course, times of shocking arousal, but while those days were dusty enough with age that the memories were certainly flawed, he didn't remember it ever having been like this: intense, immediate, overwhelming, and crackling with desire every single time they touched. God, he _wanted_. Need practically sizzled in his veins. When presented with the prospect of sex with Mycroft he felt like nothing less than a starving man offered satiety.

Or perhaps he was only picking up that particular aspect from Mycroft himself.

Either way, Greg thought as he stepped into the shower, washing with Mycroft's shower products wasn't going to do him (or his bloodflow) any favours. He suspected by the end of the meal he was likely to launch himself across the table and tear Mycroft's clothes off. Satiety, indeed.

* * *

When Greg saw the vision greeting him from the entranceway to the dining room, he stopped short.

"A _pizza_?"

Mycroft grinned at him, setting down a bowl of salad into the middle of the table. "Not just any pizza."

Greg stepped closer to investigate. "Did you _make_ me a pizza?"

"Crimini mushrooms, prosciutto, green pepper, buffalo mozzarella."

Greg blinked. "You're mad."

"A good bottle of Belgian tripel to drink, as well as water. And a salad."

"Oh, just a simple salad, hm?" Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Dandelion greens, cranberries, tomato, walnuts, goat cheese. Balsamic vinaigrette."

"Which you made yourself, naturally."

"Of course." Mycroft smirked. "I'm not a _complete_ barbarian."

Greg laughed, hard, and plunked himself down in a chair. "No, that's true. 'Barbarian' is not a word I would use to describe you."

"What word would you use?" Mycroft said as he sat. He propped his chin on his fist while Greg studied him.

Greg's brain spun frantically. "Civilised," was the only thing he could think of to say that didn't sound cheeky, crass, or strangely mawkish.

For some reason, that didn't appear to please Mycroft as much as Greg would have expected. Still, he pasted on a smile and offered Greg some salad.

The pizza immediately made Greg forget about his gaffe—whatever it was. "Where the hell did you learn to make this?"

Mycroft blinked. "The internet. I don't just sit around watching surveillance videos all day, you know. I do…surf."

Greg had take a sip of water to clear out the bite of food he'd nearly choked on at the mental image of Mycroft idly clicking through something like the Radio Times Online. "What?"

"Don't you?"

"Well… Of course I do. But I thought…you'd…"

"Not occupy myself in so prosaic a way?"

Greg laughed. "No, I figured your computer use was tracked. For a security measure. Or something like that."

"I know how to clear my browser history quite thoroughly, Gregory. If you catch my meaning."

Greg nearly choked again, so he laid down his fork. "What, from porn?"

"Recipes, message boards, and yes, the occasional adult website."

"At work?"

"If you'll remember, Gregory, there are certain elements of my life that have been thrown into complete disarray since we've…begun."

And there it was again: the thrill of arousal speeding through his bloodstream. "Ah, yes," he said, looking at Mycroft and remembering him in a very different manner—trousers parted, hand on his cock, laying pulse after pulse of come all over his desk while moaning into the microphone. With a massive effort Greg yanked himself back to the present. He found Mycroft looking at him, eyes dark, spots blooming on his cheeks as if he knew _exactly_ what Greg was envisioning. He probably did. "I suppose things are a little…different now."

"To say the least."

 _Bad?_ Greg wanted to ask, but he didn't think he wanted to know the answer. So he toasted Mycroft with a slice of pizza. "Well. Er, here's to internet research."

A shy smile crept slowly across Mycroft's face. "To internet research," he said.

* * *

"Stay seated," Mycroft said as Greg made motions to clear away their plates.

"I'd like to help."

"You may, if you like. But we're not finished."

"We're not?"

"Please stay seated. I'll be right back."

Wondering what Mycroft had planned, Greg leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. After a minute or two, he smelled something alcoholic wafting from general direction of the kitchen. He squirmed and looked over his shoulder at the door. "What are you doing in there?"

"Just a moment," Mycroft called. "I'll be just one more moment."

Greg frowned suspiciously, but he sat back again nonetheless. A full two minutes later, Mycroft entered the room bearing two small bowls. "What's happening?" Greg said, looking at him. He was flushed, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a sheepish look on his face.

"I'm so sorry. I'm afraid the drama of the unveiling is spoiled by my utter ineptitude."

Greg blinked at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Logistics are my…milieu. And yet…" Mycroft set down the bowls. They each appeared to be filled with two scoops of vanilla ice cream.

Greg didn't understand. "These look fine. It's…ice cream."

"No, there's…" Mycroft actually blushed. It sat strangely on his face, as if it didn't happen often. "There's more. Please stay here."

He went back toward the kitchen. This time Greg followed him.

"Wait, no, please—" Mycroft tried to block Greg from the kitchen, but his bulk wasn't enough to manage it.

"Whoa." Greg whistled. "What the hell were you doing?" It was an honest-to-god _wreck_. Dishes were piled up in the sink in and around the sink. Bits of multicoloured vegetable matter were scattered far beyond the cutting board, there were seeds and pips on the floor, and there was a trail of something brown dripped from the worktop to the hob.

"It…got away from me a bit. I—I don't cook very often."

"I see," Greg said. He stepped further into the room and looked around. Waiting on another worktop was a bowl of whipped cream and a cast iron pan full of a dark red and glistening concoction. "What did you make?" Greg said, turning to peer at Mycroft.

"Cherries Jubilee," he said. He didn't look Greg in the eye.

Greg looked at it again. "So what's wrong, exactly?"

"I timed it poorly."

"You timed it poorly."

"I had planned to bring the pan in while it was still en flambé, because I thought you would enjoy the surprise of it."

"…But…?"

"I got a bit…over-eager. I lit the pan on fire, but forgot to bring in the ice cream. And I didn't want to leave the kitchen with open flame, so…" Mycroft aimed a hand at the pan. "I completely failed."

"You utter numpty," Greg said. Mycroft looked at him sharply. "This is what you're so disappointed about? You ruined, not the meal, but the drama of it? It's not 100% perfect?"

"Well… Yes. Of course."

Something clenched hard in Greg's chest. He stepped in close to Mycroft, took his face in both hands, and kissed him as softly he could. Tenderness welled up and squeezed his lungs. After a moment Mycroft rested his hands at the base of Greg's spine and kissed back slowly, his breath shaky on Greg's cheek.

The kiss drew out like fine wire, and when it became too delicate to continue Greg broke it. He breathed against Mycroft's mouth for a moment before pulling back. Mycroft's eyes were closed. They remained so for several beats of Greg's heart, and when Mycroft blinked them open, they simply looked at each other.

"I'm sure the cherries still taste good," Greg said into the space between them. It was heavy, syrupy, thick.

"I hope so."

"I'll still like them even if they're not on fire."

"I don't want to serve you a second-rate pudding."

Greg looked at Mycroft's mouth. "I think you could probably serve me anything sweet, and I'd enjoy it."

Mycroft's tongue darted out to wet his lips. He looked into Greg's eyes, and they stared for another moment. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

As Greg debated leaning in for another kiss, Mycroft spoke again. "The ice cream is melting," he said in a quiet, tentative voice.

The last thing Greg wanted to do was stop kissing to go eat something, but he backed off anyway, reluctantly sliding his hands from Mycroft's hips. Mycroft's expression was heavy-lidded and vague, and he breathed heavily through his mouth. He looked as he always did about thirty seconds from sex, and if Greg didn't move right that second he was going to drag him down to the ground and have it off with him on the floor, cold tile or not. "You're no fun," he murmured.

"So I've been told many times," Mycroft said, staring at Greg's mouth. Greg barely resisted the impulse to close the space again, and dragged himself by the scruff of the neck to the worktop with the cherries. He picked up the bowl of whipped cream.

"Let's go have pudding," Greg said. He tried not to notice that nervousness, arousal, and something unnameable were chasing their way through his bloodstream. He willed his hands to stop shaking.

Mycroft blew out a heavy breath, then flicked a smile Greg's way. "Yes. We should."

* * *

Greg handed Mycroft a plate.

"This is not how I meant to be spending the evening," Mycroft said as he slid it next to the others in the dishwasher.

"Who did you think would be doing it?"

Mycroft half-shrugged and took a fork from the pile. "I thought it would keep until you were gone."

"You weren't planning to make me breakfast?" Mycroft froze and turned to Greg with a look of fear. Greg smirked. "I'm just joking."

After blinking at Greg a moment, Mycroft wordlessly went back to loading the dishwasher.

"Erm. I'm just going to bin this pile of salad odds and ends, unless you had a different plan for it."

Distracted, Mycroft turned for only a brief moment. "No, that's fine."

Greg did so, sincerely regretting his joke. He cleaned off one worktop with vague instructions from Mycroft then stood in the centre of the kitchen looking around for something else to do.

"You could find us some music in the sitting room," Mycroft suggested as he set the dishwasher to run and began scrubbing down the rest of the worktops. "I'll be only a moment."

"Sure," Greg said. "What do you want?"

Mycroft stopped for a moment to cast him a light smile. "Surprise me."

* * *

Greg immediately dove for the jazz section of Mycroft's cds once he found them. Wagner did not really seem to suit the occasion, such as it was. He'd just finished battling to make the stereo play when Mycroft came in, brushing his hands on his trousers.

"All finished?" Greg said.

"All finished."

Greg thumbed toward the cd player. "Lena Horne?"

"Indeed."

"I didn't know you listened to this."

"You don't know a lot of things about me."

Mycroft took a step closer and Greg matched him, finding himself completely unable to look away. Every glance, every movement Mycroft made communicated desire. It was intoxicating. "I'm learning."

"You appear to be doing your best."

"Are you disappointed?"

"Not at all."

"Are you lying?"

Mycroft tilted his head, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. "What would be my motivation to do a thing like that? If I didn't enjoy your company, it would be a poor way to convince you to leave. It must make sense, therefore, that I rather enjoy being around you."

Greg ignored his heart thundering his chest. He took another step forward, almost to within touching distance. "Why Mycroft. That's almost sweet."

"Almost?" Mycroft closed the gap, standing eight inches away but not touching him.

"Entirely," Greg murmured, and swooped in for a kiss. His brain immediately lit up with arousal; Mycroft's mouth was sweet and wet and luscious, and Greg groaned from deep in the pit of him.

"You taste good," Mycroft said, as quietly and dreamily as if he hadn't planned to say anything at all. He rubbed his lower lip along Greg's.

"And I smell like you." Greg's tongue darted out to just barely touch Mycroft's, sending a thrill all the way down into his groin. "I used your shower gel."

"It smells different," said Mycroft. He nuzzled his nose into the spot just below Greg's ear and inhaled. "Your chemistry changed it."

The depth, the closeness of Mycroft's voice brought Greg's arms out in gooseflesh. He suppressed a shiver. "I hear that can happen."

"Like patina on a copper coin. Your chemistry changed the nature of it. Your touch made it more beautiful."

Greg wasn't sure what they were talking about any more, but found they were pressed together, swaying to the music. He touched his lips to Mycroft's neck and brushed their hands together. Their fingers interlaced. It was suddenly a sharp, intimate connection; Greg felt it in his stomach and nearly moaned. Mycroft's chest flared with his rapid breath. Greg grasped for something to say. "You're sure I'm not just…taking the shine off it."

"Positive," Mycroft whispered.

They rocked together gently, back and forth, the music weaving around them. Greg felt seduced, ensorcelled, caught up in the sound and the smell and the feel of Mycroft's body. The first song slid into the next. Neither of them broke away, and they continued to dance until Greg's body was singing. All his attention was drawn by the man against him; his breath was loud in Greg's ear, matching the movement of his chest and the slow rock of his hips. Greg's hands were hot and beginning to sweat, and so he slipped free of Mycroft's fingers and rested both of his hands on the outside of Mycroft's upper thighs. He felt the sway of Mycroft's body and synced up with it as if it were his own.

By the time the song swelled into the bridge, they were both breathing rapidly. Greg's heart thundered in his ears. Mycroft's mouth brushed Greg's neck, making the breath rush from his lungs and his skin feel electrified and oversensitive. His hands skimmed around Mycroft's thighs and cupped his arse, plush and soft and warm, and Mycroft made a small, plaintive sound in response that sped Greg's heart even faster and rolled his hips. Mycroft gasped into his mouth.

"I want—" Greg said, but was interrupted by a sharp, autonomic intake of breath. " _—you_ ," Greg managed to get out, and panted. He felt Mycroft's fingers dig into his back. "I want you."

Mycroft's hands slid down to Greg's arse and he rolled his hips against Greg's thigh with a shudder. Greg whimpered and did the same. The ripples turned to waves; they clutched and writhed, both of them thrusting against each other's thighs, over and over. Hormones raged through Greg's system, clouding everything with a haze of lust and desire, and every touch felt like fire, and the tiny noises Mycroft made sent his blood raging southward. Greg gasped against the side of Mycroft's face, scraping his lips repeatedly on Mycroft's stubble.

Mycroft made a broken, needy noise and started fumbling for the drawstring of Greg's bottoms, panting and pressing his forehead against Greg's temple. The feel of his hands drove Greg mad. He tried not to thrust up towards them, instead going for Mycroft's belt. His hands shook wildly, but he managed to get it open just as Mycroft finally unknotted Greg's bottoms with a grunt and dropped them to Greg's ankles. Mycroft slipped his thumbs into the waistband of Greg's boxers and slid them back and forth against Greg's skin.

"Let me just—" Greg said, and tried not to whine with impatience as he fought against Mycroft's trousers with unsteady hands. Finally, they fell to the floor. Mycroft shoved his own pants down without ceremony, dragged down Greg's, and then reattached his hands to Greg's arse. Greg's head fell back and he moaned. They ground against each other for a few seconds, stealing Greg's breath and rolling his eyes back into his head. Then he felt Mycroft's hand on his cock.

" _God yes_ ," Mycroft hissed, and the need in it made Greg pulse harder. Mycroft's hand slid up and down, and Greg let out a shivery moan. He tried to reciprocate but Mycroft slipped out of his grasp, dropping to a crouch. He sucked Greg into his mouth all the way and slicked it up and down with so much enthusiasm that Greg felt his arousal spike several notches. He made fists into the empty air instead of grabbing Mycroft's hair and fucking his throat to completion.

Mycroft groaned and stood. Greg's cock slipped from his mouth and bobbed for just a moment, then Mycroft grabbed it and pulled. Greg gasped and his head fell loose on his neck. He moaned brokenly. "Wait," he said. "Wait." He spat into his hand and closed it around Mycroft's cock. It was hard as stone. "Oh _christ_ ," Greg said as Mycroft made a heart-stopping noise into his ear.

They pulled at each other desperately, rolling their hips, panting against each other's cheeks. Greg's orgasm barrelled down on him like a steam train, his heart thundering faster and faster in his ears. It slammed into him with breath-stealing power, wringing him inside out so strongly he couldn't even make a sound until the first contractions eased. He made a sound like rusted metal as he continued to spasm with pleasure, curling his hips up toward Mycroft like a bid to thrust inside. Vaguely, he heard Mycroft grit out, "Oh hell," before he started shaking violently in Greg's arms. Greg felt warm semen stripe across his arm and land on his thigh, and Mycroft moaned directly into Greg's ear. He thrust his hips and Greg slid his hand on Mycroft's cock a few times, pulling him through the last dregs of orgasm. Greg shuddered with an aftershock, all the muscles between his legs spasming with pleasure. Mycroft moaned again.

They stood there, panting for air against each other's necks. Mycroft shivered, hard.

"Well. That's better," Greg said. His voice sounded abraded and harsh in his ears. He cleared his throat, and gasped out a dry laugh. He was immensely thirsty.

Mycroft just nodded and clutched tighter to Greg as if using him as a prop to stand up.

Greg waited for a minute or so while Mycroft got his legs back under him, then gingerly stepped back. His ankles were caught in his pants and tracksuit bottoms, and rather than fight the mess just simply stepped out of them. Mycroft unsteadily slipped off his waistcoat and draped it over a chair. "Okay?" Greg said.

Mycroft looked up at him as if surprised to hear the sound of Greg's voice, but his expression melted into a small smile immediately. "Oh yes."

"Maybe now we can focus on whatever else you had planned for the rest of the night."

Mycroft flashed him a sheepish expression.

"What?"

"Sex _was_ what I had planned for the rest of the night," Mycroft said with a little chuckle.

"Ah." Greg tried not to blush.

"As you say."

Greg picked up his pants and his bottoms to go to the toilet and clean up a bit, then hesitated and walked over to Mycroft. Ignoring Mycroft's curious expression he stepped in close and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. "Thanks."

Mycroft's eyes slowly opened, a gentle smile touching the corners of his mouth. His eyes were soft. "Thank _you_ ," he said.

* * *

Greg managed to clean up most of his mess at the sink in the downstairs guest toilet, his brain spinning as he tried to determine what he should do now. Stick around in the hopes of more sex? Mycroft had asked him to stay over. What were they going to do? _Relax?_ Recreate? So far all their interactions had revolved around food and sex, and not necessarily in that order. If they branched out—was it a date, now? Greg excoriated himself for not having thought this through before he agreed to come over so early in the evening.

Back in the sitting room, Mycroft had reassembled himself without his waistcoat and was lounging on the sofa. He looked almost…relaxed. Greg smiled to see it.

"Did you find everything you needed?"

Greg's smile widened. "What, the tap? Yeah, I knew where it was." He settled down onto the sofa at Mycroft's side. "So, er." _What are we going to do now?_

"I have a proposal for you. You should feel free to say no."

Greg was wary. "Hm?"

"I'd like to…" Mycroft stopped and looked down at his knees for a moment before continuing, looking directly into Greg's eyes. "Would you be interested in seeing my painting studio?"

Stunned, Greg said, "Are you kidding?"

A muscle in Mycroft's eyebrow twitched. "Is that a no?"

Greg stood. "Can we go right now?"

A slow smile brightened Mycroft's face. He stood and gestured to a side door, through which Greg had never been. They walked down a corridor, up a smaller staircase than the main one in the foyer, and into a quiet wing which looked as if it saw very little traffic. Dust motes floated down through the light pouring out of an open room. The sharp, warm smell of chemicals and paper and paint hit Greg's nose before he even stepped through the doorway.

Greg's jaw fell open as he looked round. There was a wooden shelf, deep and high, laden with canvases and broad papers. Canvases were stacked three deep all along one wall. Behind them Greg found shelves containing more types of paints and jars and bottles than he knew existed, a few apple boxes out of which looped hoses and spilled sponges, and a whole rack of brushes which apparently warranted a shelf to themselves. There was a table with a tilted top to one side of the room, and standing in a pool of light at one corner was an easel, an example of the breed which was tattier and older than Greg had ever expected when he'd thought about Mycroft painting—he'd always pictured mahogany and brass fittings, something new and shining with varnish.

"Oh my _god_ ," he said, spinning around for another overview.

"Welcome," Mycroft said, hanging back at the door.

Greg turned to him. "This is a much larger set up than I was envisioning."

"I've had many years to accrue it."

"I guess that's true," Greg said, taking a few steps toward the stacks of painted canvases. "May I?"

Mycroft's expression was complex, but he smiled and held out a hand, palm up. "Be my guest."

The variety surprised Greg. He'd anticipated the abstract pieces like the one behind Mycroft's desk, but hadn't really considered that among them would be some realistic still-lifes, impressionist-style landscapes, and some rather lovely, sketchy looking paintings of city streets. Greg looked through most of them until he found something that made him stop to stare at Mycroft.

"Oh my god."

"What? Ah."

Greg was tilting a few out of the way to show Mycroft one of the few portraits he'd found in the stash. It was unmistakably Sherlock, but a Sherlock Greg had never known. His chin was tilted up with familiar arrogance, but his mouth quirked with humour, and his eyes sparkled. His hair was cropped short and there was not a line on his face. "How old was he?"

Mycroft peered at it, eyes narrowed, and pushed out his lips. "I think…about…sixteen in that one."

Greg blinked. "There are more?"

"Not any longer, alas," Mycroft said ruefully. "Sherlock destroyed them during some of his more…troubled times."

"God." Greg looked at the painting again. "That's disappointing."

"Indeed."

"This is…remarkable, Mycroft. You captured… You captured _him._ His…I don't know…spirit." Greg glanced at Mycroft. "He still looks like this, sometimes."

"Only when we are very, very fortunate," Mycroft said, tilting his head to take it in. "Only when he wants to gift us with something rare."

Greg scanned the painting one last time before leaning the stack the way he'd found it. He thought about the history of a man who'd produced all this art for years, and then pushed it to the side to be forgotten. He thought about the history of a man who had picked it all back up again at a word from another man he'd barely known, with whom he had only shared one meal. He thought about the history of a man and his brother, a complex, shining soul who drove them both mad and brightened up their lives, sometimes at the same time. He thought about their fights and struggles, and what it must have done to this man to come through it all. Greg didn't know much, but he knew quite enough, and he found himself stepping up to Mycroft, taking his face in both hands, and lightly kissing him on the mouth.

Mycroft's hands were soft as they gathered Greg up and pulled him close. He tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Greg heard himself make a small noise, and Mycroft gentled his mouth against Greg's and pulled back just a little. Greg's thoughts were muffled in cotton wool as he stroked his fingertips down the side of Mycroft's neck, fisted his hands briefly in Mycroft's hair, and brushed their mouths together slowly, side to side.

As he sighed, Mycroft rubbed his hands up and down Greg's ribs. He hesitated, then pulled him into an embrace. After a moment, Greg tightened his arms around Mycroft's waist and rested his forehead on the side of Mycroft's face. "Thank you for showing me this," he said.

"Thank you for allowing me to."

"They're really beautiful."

Greg could feel Mycroft swallow. "Thank you." They stood there for a good minute in silence. Greg was just beginning to be comfortable with it when Mycroft spoke again. "There's one more thing I'd like to show you."

"Mm?"

Mycroft slipped out of Greg's arms and walked over to the easel in the corner. The empty space against Greg's body felt hollow for a moment before he shook it off. He joined Mycroft next to the easel to look at the canvas. It smelled even more strongly of paint in the corner, and it was warmer under the lights.

The painting was of a crime scene roughly sketched in with oil paints, but the figures inhabiting the world were already clear. Spots of light defined the kind of damp, organised chaos that typified every rainy night Greg had ever had at work, and brought to life the ring of police cars and the slashes of police tape. It seemed lazy, unconcerned somehow, as if the viewer were watching but apart from the action. Greg looked at the figures, and he grinned so hard it ached. "Is that supposed to be me?"

Head held high, Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "Supposed to be?"

Greg couldn't stop smiling. The tiny grey-haired man was clearly wearing Greg's black coat, and he was pointing across the scene to where several plods were running. "I can't believe you put me in a painting."

The corner of Mycroft's mouth lifted. "I've been thinking about our police service an awful lot, of late."

Greg stood and spun around and grinned. He bit his lip, joy pushing up his throat and out his eyes. "Take me to bed."

Mycroft looked at him a moment, blinked, and pulled Greg into a kiss that stole his breath away. He was bent over backward by it, held upright only by the tight grip Mycroft had around his lower back. Greg's knees turned completely to jelly.

He moaned into the kiss as Mycroft kept going, pouring himself into it until Greg's world tilted under its weight. Greg grabbed on and just kept kissing back, trying to stay afloat. He reeled.

Mycroft broke the kiss with a gasp and immediately smeared kisses across Greg's jaw and down to his throat. Greg held on against the assault as his knees threatened to buckle. "Or we could just have sex right here," he said on a breath.

At that, Mycroft actually growled. It was a sound Greg had never heard before, and in that moment there was nothing more that Greg wanted but to hear it all the goddamn time. "We're going to bed," Mycroft said.

_Oh jesus._

They ran—actually ran—to the wing where Mycroft's bedroom was. Mycroft fell onto the bed and Greg climbed over him to pin down his arms and kiss him as forcefully as possible. Mycroft whimpered, but he arched up against him.

Greg let go of his hands and started unbuttoning Mycroft's shirt as Mycroft groped him everywhere: all over his arse, his back, up the backs of his thighs, his ribs, his shoulders. "Dear _god_ , what are you doing with me?"

Greg made an interrogative noise, but his mouth was busy on Mycroft's neck while he finished unbuttoning his shirt.

"I'm just…average. My hair is thinning and I'm soft around the middle but you are just." His voice got tight, soft and fragile. "You are so beautiful."

It was too much. A laugh bubbled up, and Greg planted his face against Mycroft's cheek while he slid his fingertips just under the hem of his vest. "What in the _hell_ are you talking about?"

Mycroft turned his head and stared at him half-lidded, hazy and turned on. His pulse rapidly twitched at his throat. "Words cannot begin to adequately express my attraction to you."

"You think I'm sexy?"

Mycroft studied his face and brushed his knuckles down Greg's jaw, like a gentle, slow-motion punch. "Deeply, terribly sexy." Mycroft tilted his head and took Greg's mouth in a kiss as slow and thick and sweet as honey. The frantic nature of the previous five minutes transmuted and stole the breath from Greg's lungs, and the raging fire banked down to a white-hot smoulder. It melted his bones.

" _I want you_ ," Greg eventually got out, once he could find the wit to speak again. "I want you so badly I can't see straight. You clearly have no idea how sexy you are." Greg forced his face against Mycroft's temple and panted, trying to control himself. "Just the _thought_ of you. Your manner. Your body. That mouth. Your _hands_." Greg groaned. "I want to fuck you so badly."

Staring up at the ceiling, Mycroft's jaw worked. He huffed out a breath. Then he lifted his arm up to scoop Greg closer and kissed him hard, making a pained noise.

Desperation roared up and swamped Greg. His senses dimmed to everything but bitter need for Mycroft, and his chest ached as he pressed as close as physically possible. It still wasn't enough. He felt frenzied, incoherent, kissing and biting at Mycroft's mouth until he cried out with frustration. Mycroft clutched at him, at his back and his arse, curling his arms up behind Greg's shoulders, holding him painfully tight.

"I can't get—" Greg made a broken noise. "I can't get _close_ enough."

In answer, Mycroft yanked Greg's shirt up and over his head, then started attacking his collarbone with his mouth. Greg rolled over onto his back. Mycroft grabbed the opportunity, nuzzling and biting down Greg's torso making the most unhinged noises, and when he got to Greg's bottoms he took them off as fast has his fingers could manage it. He sucked Greg down immediately.

"Oh jesus christ," Greg gasped. He gripped Mycroft's hair with both hands. Mycroft rode his hips as they kicked forward, but he pulled his mouth off with a small 'pop'. "Get the fuck up here," Greg said, yanking him up by the hair.

Mycroft moaned into his mouth. Greg's toes curled. He lifted one thigh around Mycroft and ground himself into Mycroft's trousers.

Mycroft broke the kiss with a gasp. "Help me with this," he said, and frantically tried to shrug off his shirt. Greg did, then he stripped Mycroft's vest over his head. Greg moaned at the feeling of Mycroft's skin under his hands, and leaned up to explore the smoothness of Mycroft's shoulder with his mouth. Mycroft groaned, and his hips shifted against Greg's thigh. He was incredibly hard, and that fact drew Greg's attention away from Mycroft's shoulder and more to the fact that now, right now, at that very second, he needed all Mycroft's clothes gone.

Their hands got in the way of each other, fumbling for his belt buckle and flies, but they managed it soon enough, and before Greg could get much more impatient Mycroft was kicking off his trousers and his pants all in one.

They came together with a sliding of skin and a heartfelt groan. Mycroft's skin was warm and alive and the feeling of it stoppered embarrassing words in Greg's throat. For several blissful minutes they simply writhed against each other, panting and groping, feet skidding for purchase against the sheets. 

"Get the lube," Greg said, gasping and arching up against Mycroft.

Mycroft let his forehead fall to Greg's shoulder for a moment and groaned, then reached over to the bedside table to fumble the drawer open. Greg took the opportunity to kiss all over his freckled shoulder. Mycroft leaned back with the bottle and settled his weight on his elbows to either side of Greg's head. He smoothed his hands back from Greg's face and dipped his head down to kiss him thoroughly.

Greg reached up to grab for the lube. Mycroft broke the kiss to speak. "What did you have in mind?"

"Between your legs." Greg stretched his arms up above his head in a strange contortion, trying to enjoy Mycroft's weight against his chest while also pouring lube into his hand. He thought he could manage to do both at the same time, but he writhed a bit too exuberantly and some lubricant spilled off his palm and onto Mycroft's pillow. "Oh, goddammit."

"Here,' Mycroft said, and took the bottle from Greg, but paused in a sidetracked manner to kiss a line down his neck. When he'd reached some benchmark of satisfaction known only to him, he lifted up his hips enough to reach between their bodies and rub a slippery hand all over Greg's cock.

Greg's head tilted back on the pillow. "Oh. _Christ,_ " he gritted between his teeth.

Mycroft rolled off Greg and grabbed him by the wrist. "Come on, Inspector. Fuck me." He pulled Greg's hand between his legs to rub lubricant between his thighs. 

At the word from Mycroft's lips, at the concept of it, Greg's vision went a little blurry. He exhaled a growl as he rolled on top of Mycroft and thrusted, and Mycroft squeezed him tightly between his thighs. It was slick friction and warmth, and just the mechanical action made Greg pulse harder. He put his hands on Mycroft's wrists and weighed them down, and Mycroft growled. Greg shoved between Mycroft's legs again, almost a twitch of his hips.

"You can do better than that, Inspector." Mycroft said, eyes flashing. " _Fuck me._ "

"Oh _christ_ ," Greg grunted. He curled his arms under Mycroft's shoulders and kicked his hips forward in an explosive movement. His cock slid smoothly forward, rubbing all the way between Mycroft's legs from back to front. The headboard banged against the wall.

Mycroft slammed his head back into the pillow with a massive grin on his face. He let out a chuckle. " _Again._ " When Greg repeated the action, Mycroft's jaw fell open and he moaned. "Oh. Fuck." Greg's eyes rolled back into his head. Mycroft grabbed Greg by the hips, and when Greg thrust again Mycroft timed a roll of his hips so Greg's cock reached further toward his arse and his own cock slipped against Greg's belly. It caught on the hair, and Greg hissed.

"Wait." He grabbed for the lube, and spread it around liberally, and this time when Greg moved and Mycroft rolled his hips they both moaned in each other's ears.

"Oh _fuck,_ " Mycroft whimpered. His hands tightened on Greg's arse.

They settled into a slow, jerking rhythm, Greg thrusting between Mycroft's legs and Mycroft rolling his hips up between their bodies. It felt good, intense, _powerful_ to be shoving himself against Mycroft's body. It was scratching an itch, and Greg let out a broken moan with the satisfaction of it.

Then Mycroft whispered. "Harder."

Greg whined, but tried to comply. His stomach muscles were beginning to ache, but he tried. He pulled down harder on Mycroft's shoulders, and Mycroft dug his fingers into the flesh of Greg's arse, and the movement turned almost violent in its explosive force. Mycroft muffled a cry by biting Greg on the meat of his shoulder. The bed slammed against the wall with every thrust.

After a minute or so, Greg was unable to control the noises coming out of his throat. His muscles burned, and he had reached a plateau of arousal so wasn't sure when he was going to reach orgasm, but his body sang with mixed-up pain and pleasure. It hurt. Everything was on fire and he couldn't make himself care and he just kept going as hard as he could, harder, harder, until _oh jesus christ_ was he going to come.

" _Mycroft_ ," Greg whined, and he dropped violently over the edge, jerking with a sudden flood of pleasure like releasing the pressure behind a tap. He held on desperately to Mycroft and cried out as his body convulsed, his muscles screaming with fatigue but squeezing out absolute fucking ecstasy. 

Greg felt Mycroft's hand squirming between them, and with a few jerks Mycroft curled up against Greg's body and pushed out a shredded noise, painful as a knee scraped on asphalt. His head fell back against the pillow and his neck stretched as he came with a long, drawn-out cry that quavered with his shuddering.

Panting, Greg held him as tightly as possible, trying to reassemble his thoughts after such a shockingly-intense orgasm. He was wrung-out, satisfied, and _exhausted_. He felt high.

Beneath him, Mycroft shivered with a massive aftershock and writhed, easing out a quiet moan. Greg couldn't move. He wanted to go shower again, or at least clean up, and he knew his bladder was going to start demanding attention at any moment, but none of his systems seemed inclined to care about anything but stillness. Peace settled over him like a warm blanket, muffling everything around them, and though he blinked a few times, in the end there was nothing for it. After a few moments Greg slipped under into a thick, dreamless sleep.

* * *

When he woke, it was dark in the room. Greg was disorientated for a few heart-pounding moments before he remembered where he was and who he was with. His bladder was _screaming_.

He slipped carefully out of bed to take care of it, and when he came back he stopped for a moment to watch Mycroft sleep. He was snoring gently, mouth open, shoulders looking pale and vulnerable in the pale light of the streetlights outside. Greg remembered the softness of that skin under his lips, and with a start realised that he'd fallen asleep immediately after sex without cleaning up. He slid his hand along his stomach. It was a little rough, but not sticky: Mycroft must have wiped him clean without waking him. A smile lifted the corner of Greg's mouth. Sneaky bastard.

Tenderness clutched at Greg's chest as he eased back underneath the covers. He slid close enough to Mycroft's body to feel his body heat and sighed, already starting to doze. He reached out a few fingers and touched Mycroft's arm, warmed by the contact.

Mycroft made a quiet grunting noise and shifted, rolling over onto Greg, throwing his arm across Greg's chest, tucking a leg over his knee, and snuffling into his neck. It felt…nice, so Greg accepted his fate. He stroked his knuckles across Mycroft's back a few times, kissed his hair, and fell immediately back to sleep.

* * *

The next time Greg blinked awake, it was daylight and Mycroft's alarm was going off. Greg scanned the room, but the man himself was no where to be found. Leaning against the alarm clock, however, was a folded piece of paper.

Custom stationary, it turned out, the posh berk. Stationary, and a fancy pen.

`Gregory,`

`I'm sorry, but I've had to leave for a work appointment earlier than expected. I've set the alarm so that you might have time to retrieve some items at home before your own workday begins.`

`Feel free to shower here, if you like, and while I apologise for not being home to make you breakfast, there is at least bread in the kitchen if you'd like toast and tea. You are welcome to anything you find in there.`

`Sincerely,  
Mycroft`

Greg fell back onto the pillow and dropped the note onto his chest. Well. That eases any awkwardness that might have arisen after such an intense shag, but on the other hand, being left alone in Mycroft's house felt awkward as well. Making breakfast in Mycroft's house would have been strange enough _with Mycroft there_ , never mind wandering alone around the large, cool, pristine rooms feeling his own foreign presence echo in the space. No, Greg would head home and get ready for work there. It would be simpler.

He was, however, going to grab a few leftover slices of pizza for breakfast. To let that shit go to waste might legitimately be a crime.

Greg rolled over and stretched to use the bedside table as a hard surface while he left a note on the back of Mycroft's own. His muscles ached like mad already. Tomorrow they were bound to be hell. It made Greg smile to himself.

`Mycroft,`

`Thanks again for a great night.`

Greg bit the pen. 

`I've purloined some pizza. Hope you weren't looking forward to leftovers.`

Greg considered what else to say. _Thanks for cleaning up after sex; that was sweet? Hope you don't ache as much as I'm going to? I can't wait to shag again? You are alarmingly nice to have a cuddle with?_

_Was that a date?_

A thrill of something tight and hot fluttered in his gut. He swallowed.

`Let's not wait too long. Text me whenever you like. Or call.`

`Speak to you soon,  
Greg`


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _By the time Greg drove to the scene of Sherlock's crime, he could feel his pulse in his palms and he was desperately craving a drink. If Sherlock put one toe, one hair, spoke one_ word _out of line, Greg swore to himself he might punch him._
> 
> Not all steps forward are progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiple thanks go to my betas Mazarin221B, BilliethePoet, and HiddenLacuna, who can hold many things in their brilliant heads, all at the same time.

"Guv," Sally said, leaning into his office late in the morning, "call on one for you."

Greg looked up from the spreadsheet of telephone numbers for only a brief moment. "Mm?" He highlighted another name.

"It's your _boyfriend_."

The teasing note in her voice made him roll his eyes. "He's not— Oh, go away," he said, and waited until she shut the door again before picking up the handset.

"Lestrade."

"Inspector, apologies. My assistant must have dialled the incorrect extension."

"Why didn't you just call my mobile?"

"May I ask you to pull your mobile from your jacket pocket?"

Greg pulled a face. "It's not in my jacket pocket."

There was a pregnant silence.

"Oh fine, it is." He leaned over to pull it out and thumb on the screen. It remained black. "Ah," he said, and began to rustle through a desk drawer for his charger. "Well. That explains the silence."

"Have we been bit busy today?"

"Well, I can't speak to the royal we, Mycroft, but yes. It's been all slog work all week. With very little to show for it."

"Doesn't your sergeant do that for you?"

"We don't all live in a universe with assistants doing all our drudge work for us. Some of us have to do the dirty work, too."

"I work, Inspector." Mycroft tone was suddenly aloof.

Greg sighed, feeling bad for yet again crossing that nebulous line between friendly teasing and something more barbed. When talking with Mycroft lately, it either came out too formal or not formal enough, and he felt like a pendulum swinging wildly and never finding proper centre. And with the way they had left it a week ago at Mycroft’s house, things felt even more on edge than before. “Yeah, sorry. You do. Sorry, I'm just…" He stopped, and finally said something that had been raising question marks since they'd first met. "What's with the pool of pretty colleagues, Mycroft?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The girls—young women. Why?" _Are you even attracted to women?_

"I guarantee, it's not what you expect."

"What do you think I expect?"

"Something boorish related to having attractive women around me at all times, no? That is the going assumption."

"No."

"No?"

"No, that's too pedestrian a reason for you."

"Is that so." Mycroft sounded pleased, and Greg abandoned the search for his charger to lean back in his chair and play with the phone cord.

"I think there's something else. Something political, probably."

"In a manner of speaking."

"Well?"

Mycroft let the moment hang there as Greg waiting for his response. Finally he said, "People underestimate them."

It was pretty much what Greg was expecting. "They're brilliant, you're saying."

"Oxbridge, most. Trained in hand-to-hand and weaponry, often. Political minds, experts in subterfuge, ex-military officers, brilliant with computers. Due to their looks they often found themselves…at a disadvantage in fields rife with sexism. I discovered that it served the purposes of my office to use that hide-bound thought process against itself."

"They bring in your files, and it doesn't occur to people that the woman serving tea at a meeting is about ten times smarter than them?"

"And they tend to say things they might not otherwise, yes."

"How do your assistants feel about this?"

"My operatives are more finely aware of the landscape of misogyny than either of us will ever be, as you can expect, but I do tend to have a steady stream of applicants, so it appears to be a position in demand. I suspect that the chance to do what one has always wanted has its benefits."

"Meaning espionage."

"I'm only a minor governmental official, Inspector."

Greg snorted, as he knew Mycroft expected him to, and he could almost imagine the smirk on his face. _Pull the other one._ "It has bells on."

"Come to my office for lunch, and maybe I will."

Greg sat up in his chair, suddenly at attention. "Yeah?"

"Yes."

"My break is at noon."

"Traffic permitting, you could be 'on the pull' by 12:30. With bells on.”

Greg chortled. "That was terrible."

"But you laughed."

Leaning forward, Greg tucked his phone between his ear and shoulder and propped his chin in his palm. He spun the highlighter between the fingers of his free hand. "I laughed at how terrible it was."

"You laughed because you find me amusing."

"I laughed because your humour is execrable."

"My humour is beyond reproach."

"I'm reproaching it right now."

"Odd. I don't feel that reproached."

"Clearly I'm not trying hard enough."

"You're to be excused from your poor efforts. You've had a difficult morning."

"It doesn't take much for me to find something to reproach you for."

"You aim and you aim, but you seldom score true."

"I have not yet begun to unleash the full fury of my arrows on you."

"I look forward to being pierced."

Greg's heart began to race. He shifted in his seat. "You're just going to stand there while I have…target practice?"

"I welcome it. Let fly, Gregory."

The rumble in Mycroft's voice made Greg swallow hard. "What if I miss the bull's eye?"

"You have a full quiver and I've a soundproofed office, correct?"

"To practise."

"Until you get it…just… _right_."

Greg's eyes closed at the seductiveness in Mycroft's tone. He'd just opened his mouth to respond when there was a perfunctory knock at the door and Sally poked her head in. 

"We've had a—" She peered at him suspiciously. "Are you all right?"

Greg cleared his throat and tried to pretend he hadn't just been just been slipping into thinly-veiled phone sex with the guy he periodically shagged. "Of course. Just working on a. Er."

She rolled her eyes. "SOCO has the results of the deep search of the guy's flat. If you want them."

Desperately hoping he wasn't blushing, Greg nodded at her and gestured with the highlighter. "I'll be right out."

Again, she rolled her eyes, then closed the door behind her a bit more firmly than was necessary.

"Sorry," Greg said into the phone.

"No matter," Mycroft said, and it was back to the calm Mycroft, the aloof Mycroft. Already Greg missed the roughness in his voice.

"It's just we've finally got the results back on—er." At the last moment, he stopped himself just pouring out the state of the case to Mycroft, which was absolutely not on. "I've got to get back to work."

"Of course."

"I'll see you in an hour?"

There was a pause. Then Mycroft said, a bit more warmly, "Yes."

"Good. Great. Bye." Greg was about to hang up, but then he realised something. "Hey. Wait. Were you phoning me for something in the first place?"

"No matter," Mycroft said breezily. "We can discuss it at a later date."

"You sure?"

"Of course. We both have work which calls to us."

"Er, right," Greg said, and tried to shake the itch of curiosity. "Well. I'll see you soon."

"I look forward to it."

They rang off, and Greg pressed his fingers to his mouth. Lunch couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

When noon rolled around, Greg was knee-deep in a meeting about the connections between the phone numbers called from a victim's mobile. By the time it let out, he was nearly fifteen minutes late to meet Mycroft at his office. Ignoring the thrill of nerves percolating in his gut, Greg headed out towards the nondescript multi-storey building just off the main road in a quiet corner near Whitehall.

He made his way unimpeded through the empty lobby and rode the unmarked lift up until the doors opened for him. To the right, a large desk dominated the area, as well as several waxy pot plants and a smirking woman who nodded him through without a break in the clickity-clack of keys. As he passed, Greg looked at her with all new appreciation, wondering what her specialist subject was. He slowly pushed open Mycroft's office door to peer in.

"Oh!" Mycroft said, looking up with a smile spread across his face. "I didn't know you'd arrived."

Greg snorted. "Bollocks. You know everyone who enters the building."

Mycroft stood up, trying on his most unconvincing of innocent expressions. "Minor government official."

"Nope."

"Pencil pusher."

"Liar."

"No one of any consequence."

"Well, that's where you're definitely wrong." Mycroft had stalked within kissing distance, and so Greg did, slipping one arm around to his lower spine and using the other to pull his mouth down within reach. Mycroft took Greg's face in both hands.

It was slow, at first, and it continued to be so. Now that they were touching the urgency had faded to a low murmur, and Greg felt a surprising amount of enjoyment at the simple act of kissing him. It just felt… _good_. Greg enjoyed the softness of Mycroft's mouth. He enjoyed the quiet noises he made in his throat. All of it—the gentle brush of his tongue, the tenderness of his hands, the careful tremble of Mycroft's breath on his cheek—was an uncomplicated pleasure.

It unspooled on and on, Greg unwilling or unable to break it for so long he lost track of time. Mycroft whimpered into their mouths. Greg's stomach flipped.

" _Gregory,_ " Mycroft whispered, and Greg pulled his head back to look at him. Mycroft appeared lust-drunk, his pupils blown wide and dark, his lips kissably red.

Greg dragged his fingertips down Mycroft's cheek. He stared at Mycroft's mouth. "Keep going," he said, just loud enough to be heard.

Mycroft's expression nearly crumpled as he leaned in again, and he let out a shaky breath as his lips closed on Greg's.

They staggered sideways to the wall and used it to hold themselves up as Greg's knees started to loosen. He whined and clutched on to Mycroft's lower body, pulling them together and losing himself in gulping kisses. He was coming apart at the seams, bit by bit, disintegrating with every press of their mouths. His heart raced. The room swum.

"Oh _god_ ," Mycroft breathed against Greg's mouth. He kissed him, then kissed him again.

Greg held on and reeled. He dropped his jacket off his shoulders then dragged Mycroft across the room. He lay down on the sofa to pull Mycroft on top of him like a blanket. They both sighed.

"Mycroft," Greg whispered, and buried his face against Mycroft's neck as they writhed. Instead of replying, Mycroft just whimpered and scooped his hands underneath Greg to hold him close. "Kiss me." And Mycroft did, nudging his way up Greg's cheek to his mouth.

They both already known that two weeks was too long, but it appeared that even one week was an uncomfortable amount of time to be apart from each other. A warning light went on in Greg's brain, suggesting that perhaps they were becoming a bit too attached, a bit too used to regular sex. Perhaps it might be time to consider that concept in the light of day—or, perhaps, when not under the influence of so many hormones. In the meantime, Greg was going to spend every damn second of his lunch hour kissing Mycroft, chasing satisfaction until he could finally get on with his life without craving his scent and taste and touch.

Greg let his mind go. He let himself think about nothing but the careful way Mycroft was cradling Greg's face in his hands; Mycroft's wet, slick mouth; the feeling of Mycroft on top of him, pressing down, aroused and male and smelling so goddamned good it was criminal.

He wound an arm around Mycroft's waist and rolled his hips up against him. "How long do you have?" he gasped.

"Not nearly long enough."

"How long is that, exactly?"

"About long enough to cause you pleasure but not long enough to satisfy myself.”

"We can't find a way to do both?"

"I won't be satisfied by less than three hours access to all your skin, and that's impossible."

"Three hours is awfully specific."

"It's an estimate based on past experiences."

"With me?"

Mycroft blinked down at him. "How many other experiences do you imagine I've had?"

It was too embarrassing to look Mycroft dead in the eye. Greg gave in to the urge to press his forehead to Mycroft's temple instead. "I haven't the foggiest."

"The answer is likely not what you think."

"Well, statistically, yeah, I think that's probably true."

Mycroft gave him an amused look, incongruous with his mussed hair and swollen mouth. "Touché."

“Let’s just focus, mm?”

The corner of Mycroft’s lips quirked. “On what, precisely?”

Greg took his mouth in a desperate kiss, trying to convey all the frustration of the previous week, trying to express just how amazing kissing Mycroft could feel. The humour between them melted into need, hot and full and gorgeous. Greg wrapped one thigh up over Mycroft’s hip and ground against his thigh. Mycroft whined deep in his throat and reached down between them to cup his hand around Greg’s growing erection.

“Oh jesus,” Greg said, and tilted his head back and his hips up.

“I keep thinking about the last time we were together.” Mycroft pressed his face against Greg’s shoulder and stroked him through his trousers. “The…forcefulness of it.”

Greg moaned. “Is that so.”

“It was incredibly satisfying.”

Nodding, Greg grasped at Mycroft’s arse and pulled his buttocks apart. Mycroft made a broken noise and pushed his forehead harder against Greg’s collarbone, and his hand rubbed more insistently at Greg’s cock. It was starting to chafe, but the pain was pleasant. “We need to do that again.”

“I would…” Mycroft interrupted himself with a grunt as he ground himself against Greg’s thigh. He was hard as stone, rocking his hips against Greg’s quadriceps, his breath huffing out. Greg realised the thought of a bit of rough was causing Mycroft's control to slip. Mycroft made a frustrated noise and finished his sentence. “I would enjoy that.”

“But not right now.”

“Alas.”

“How much time do you actually have?”

“Three quarters of an hour more, at the most.”

“I might have less.”

“We should probably get started, then.”

“We should get…” For a fraction of a moment Greg wasn’t going to say it, but he gave in to the dopey side of his sense of humour. “We should get busy getting busy.” There was no way he could keep a straight face, though, so he didn’t even try. He just giggled, looking up at Mycroft’s blinking expression until Mycroft’s composure broke and he guffawed, shaking his head, denying the humour of the joke.

“Go set your phone up to charge, Gregory.”

“Get off, then.” Greg realised that he was nervous for some reason, and the sophomoric humour was helping ease it a bit.

Mycroft rolled off him, smirking ruefully. “Must you?”

“Must I? Greg laughed. “Must I what?”

“Is this what I’m going to have to contend with this afternoon?”

Greg got up to plug in his phone. “That depends. Do you have a different idea for something I could do with my mouth?”

“As it happens, I have several.”

“I suspected you might.”

“And I suspect you might know at least one of them.”

“I suspect I do.” Greg left his mobile charging on Mycroft’s desk and walked toward him, licking his lips and unfastening his flies. Mycroft looked thoroughly debauched, sitting on the sofa with his hair a wreck, the flush creeping down below his collar, unabashedly rubbing himself through his trousers. Greg knelt down between his knees and started working at his belt. “Am I getting warm?”

“Oh, you were already warm.”

“Hot, then?”

“This is verging on another ridiculous joke, Gregory.”

“Some pun about you being hot?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, looking honestly taken aback. “I can’t say anyone has called me that before.”

Greg looked up at him, his hands stilling as they parted the flies on Mycroft’s trousers. “What’s that Sherlock says? People are idiots?”

“Please. Never mention his name while we are in such a compromising position.”

“I regret it already.” Greg pulled Mycroft’s cock out through the opening in his pants, and was just about to lean in when across the room his mobile's text alert clanged. Then again. Then again. Seven more times it sounded before it finally fell silent again. Greg lifted up his head to look wide-eyed into Mycroft's face.

"Popular man," Mycroft said, bemused.

"How many of those were from you?"

"Two."

"I wonder who sent the rest."

"I have my suspicions."

Greg flashed on Sherlock's usual manner of texting repeatedly until Greg replied. "What's the definition of insanity?"

"Dealing with my brother?"

"Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different response?"

"That's a bit what I meant."

Greg groaned and pushed himself off Mycroft, rolling to his feet. "What the hell is his problem?" he said, plucking the mobile off Mycroft's desk and thumbing it on. "We're not working on anything together at the moment. Hell, I'm still waiting for—" He froze, horrified. "Fuck. Oh for christ's…" Greg burst into activity, tugging up his trousers with one hand and pressing the buttons on his phone with the other. "Donovan, it's me. Are you in the building? Sherlock and John need help at…" He had to stop attempting to fasten his trousers to scroll through his messages to get the address. Mycroft, who had been watching all this with an expression which grew increasingly-concerned by the second even as he tucked himself away, sprang up to finish fastening Greg's trousers for him. Greg flashed a grateful look while he spoke into the phone again. "776 Humboldt. Yeah. No. Yeah. I don't know. No, I don't know what case they're working on. They just called to—Yeah." Mycroft held out Greg's jacket, and Greg slipped his arms in while he confirmed and gave the scant details Sherlock and John had texted.

"I phoned half an hour ago because I really needed the Farrier numbers. Where are you?" she said.

"My battery was flat and I was…occupied with another…project," Greg said, and suddenly it was too difficult to look Mycroft in the eye. "Sorry, no. I don't know what they were doing there. I don't think it's related to the Farrier case… Donovan, I don't _know_. I don't know. Research. Yes, it was important." Greg was sure his cheeks were bright pink. He went to go look for his phone, realising a few seconds later it was in his hand already.

He unplugged the charger and dared to look at Mycroft for a moment while Sally deployed her best sarcasm card in the battle of 'Where the Fuck is Greg'. Mycroft blushed—actually blushed—and went to go stand behind his desk and rearrange the files on it. Greg tuned back in to, “…and I’m sure it was vital, sir. Attending luncheon is very important if you're going to win Toff Bingo."

" _Donovan._ "

"Sorry sir. You probably want me to stop giving you shit for shagging your boyfriend at lunch while the rest of us are hard at work."

Greg let out a long sigh. He couldn't say she was entirely wrong. Guilt spiralled tightly in his stomach alongside the stymied arousal. “Just. Never mind, I'll phone if I need backup." Greg hung up on Sally's next helplessly-on-point retort just to preserve whatever self-possession he had left. He was going to need it to rescue Sherlock and John from themselves. Again.

"What form of destruction has my brother perpetrated this time?" Mycroft said, stepping closer with an uneasy half-smile on his face.

Greg picked up the humour like a life line. "True to form, he broke into a funeral home."

Mycroft looked at the windows. "Broke into— It's _daylight_."

"John was the decoy." Greg forced a bemused smile. "Apparently they'd waited for me to get there with a warrant. They stopped waiting.”

"Ah."

"Yeah. _Ah._ " Greg did a quick walk-round to make sure he wasn't forgetting anything. "So now I have to rescue them from the tender mercies of the constabulary while trying to explain…" Greg stopped walking for long enough to shrug and gesture between the two of them.

"Why you didn't reply to his texts."

"Eight texts and four missed calls, actually." Greg's mouth was a line as he checked his pockets once again for the phone charger. "Two of those were from John." The other two had been from Sally. Greg strode toward the door and stopped short. "Erm. I've got to…" He gestured over his shoulder.

"Go," Mycroft said, talking a tentative step closer. He reached his hand toward Greg but then halted.

Greg looked him in the eye for a moment, his stomach roiling, mouth dry as dust, before spinning from the room. His heart beat in his mouth all the way down to his car.

* * *

By the time Greg drove to the scene of Sherlock's crime, he could feel his pulse in his palms and he was desperately craving a drink. If Sherlock put one toe, one hair, spoke one _word_ out of line, Greg swore to himself he might punch him.

Leaving the aggression unexamined, Greg pulled up next to a squad car which was still ticking with warmth. He slid into the building just as a passing-familiar officer named Tracy was trying to handcuff Sherlock. He seemed to be hesitant to restrain him, following the florid movements of Sherlock's hands with the cuffs instead of pinning them in place. John was already cuffed, slumped in a chair. He looked a strange combination of furious and exhausted. A man, assumedly the funeral home director, was behind the main desk holding a bloody Kleenex to his nose and talking to Hennipin, Tracy's partner.

"I'm _saying_ what you plebeians think you see is not the whole story. Look at the log book behind the—" Sherlock looked up, spied Greg, and abandoned his screed. "Lestrade. Where in the _hell_ have you been? Go in the back room and look. _Look_. She's here, I know it. He's hiding her. Look in cold storage or something."

"Her?"

"Carfax. Go." Dismissing Greg, Sherlock turned his derision onto the Tracy, who had finally begun trying to cuff him. "Oh, I don't know why you're bothering," Greg heard him say as he pushed through into the back rooms, ignoring the loud objection of the funeral home director.

The building was a small labyrinth, but clean, and Greg stalked through looking for the cold storage. It was as good a place to begin as any. Before he reached it, however, Greg heard the unmistakeable sound of someone trying to do something quietly and failing. He took a right and found himself staring at a nervous teen leaning over a conveyor belt, watching a coffin about to enter a crematory furnace. The look on her face was enough to drive Greg forward and plunge down the first bright red button on the machine that screamed "emergency stop". Luckily, the conveyer halted.

"What the hell is—" Greg started, but the girl bolted. He tore after her, down the back hall away from the entrance, under the fluorescents toward the natural light pouring in through the back door.

She clattered awkwardly down the aluminium stairs on her too-big ballet flats and swung round to pass the loading bay, where she hit a patch of gravel and skidded. Afterword, Greg decided that was really the only reason he caught up. She regained her footing just as Greg launched himself off the third step. They collided with a collective grunt.

"Let me go," she said, panting, her grimace crinkling up her eyes in the sun.

"Where is Carfax?" Greg asked, pinning her arms behind her.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Why did you run?"

"Because you chased me."

"I chased you because you ran," Greg said, starting to get his breath back. "Showed your hand, a bit."

"I don't know who you're talking about."

"Carfax."

"I don't know where she is."

"She?" Greg said. "I'd like you to come in for questioning," he added on a lark.

She screwed up her face in annoyance. "I don't have to."

"No, you don't. But if you _have_ done something wrong, it'll go easier for you if you come in voluntarily."

"Fuck off."

Greg stopped and sighed, then let her up. She brushed herself off and prodded an oozing graze on her elbow. The scowl she shot at him could have melted the brick wall of the building.

"I'll have you for brutality."

Greg blinked at her and chuckled nervously. "I'm sorry, what?"

She poked a finger in his direction. "You pursued without cause."

With a sigh, Greg scrubbed his face with his hand. "Why were you running?" He looked up with a start at the sound of footsteps, just in time to see the tails of her jumper flapping behind her as she turned the corner. He sighed, giving up. It wouldn't be too hard to find out who she was, anyway. Greg trodded heavily back up the aluminium stairs and into the building. His knees hurt. He really, _really_ wished he were still in Mycroft's office, snogging on the sofa and laughing. He thought wistfully of the feeling of Mycroft's hair slipping between his fingers. He conjured a memory of Mycroft's smell.

He heard Sherlock's voice long before he reached the front room, and it ripped him out of the fantasy.

"But where is Carfax? Ask him THAT." Greg jolted to a stop and his heart froze. Suddenly he knew. _Oh shit_.

He tore around the labyrinth of corridors until he found the crematorium and stumbled into the room. Forgotten amidst the altercation with the surly teenager and the daydream about sex with Mycroft, the machine still sat there, unmoving. The furnaces, however, continued to roar. And there, poised to enter the flames, was a coffin.

Greg crept up to it, his heart trapped and trying to beat its way free up his throat and out of his chest. He approached it side-on, reaching out with one hand when he got close. He tried jerking on one of the handles, nonsensically, as if he'd have been able to move it with one hand and by himself. Greg took another step closer. He stood next to the conveyor belt, the coffin sitting ready before him. Greg took a deep breath.

When he opened the coffin, he found the corpse of a little, wizened, OAP.

Greg sagged with relief. It didn't seem likely this was the Carfax Sherlock was talking about. It looked like someone's grandmother. Greg shut the lid carefully, sealing away once again sight of the waxy face. He took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly, and if it shook…well, there was no one else in the room to hear. As soon as the thought floated through Greg's mind, that was when he heard it: a tiny scratching, and the unmistakeable sound of a muffled cry. Greg took two giant steps to the corridor and shouted.

"HELP. I need help! Tracey, get emergency services. Now. Sherlock, get your arse back here!"

He burst into action, his heart once again trying to break free, and examined every cupboard in the room. Bizarrely, he even glanced through the window into the furnace itself, as if anyone could have been alive in there to shout and scratch. The only place left was…

Greg snuck up close to the coffin and pressed an ear to its side. Shamingly, horrifyingly, paradoxically, terrifyingly, the sounds were coming from inside the coffin.

He flung open the lid of the box, but the granny was still. The scratching and whimpering sound was a little louder. Sherlock, and John came tearing into the room. Greg caught Sherlock's eye.

"False bottom," Greg squeezed out through a throat too tight for full speech.

Sherlock snapped into action, stalking the coffin, looking for the catch. Without a word, John stepped in and carefully, tenderly, scooped up the old woman and laid her on a nearby rolling cart. Sherlock's hands skittered around the perimeter of the false bottom, ripping at the cheap silk. After almost half a minute of failure, the panicked noises coming from inside the coffin had transferred to Greg's chest. His palms were clammy as he jumped in, trying to find a latch or a button around the outside. Greg looked up at Sherlock and shrugged, and Greg saw that same horror reflected in Sherlock's eyes.

Next to them, John sighed exasperatedly. He stomped over to the fire safety kiosk near the door and pulled out the axe. "Move," he barked.

"JOHN." Greg's eyes widened and he moved to intercept him. "You could maim her—"

"MOVE," John said. He shoved Greg aside and swung the axe sideways, catching the coffin on the side where the body's feet should have been. It splintered, but didn't break. John swung again, and a third time, and finally he tore a chunk out of it. The gagged screams filled the room with gut-freezing horror.

John stepped in close and stuck his hand into the coffin, did something, and the false floor rose up a few inches. It bobbed when John shifted. He looked around at Sherlock and Greg in amazed exasperation. "Well?"

 _Oh._ Greg and Sherlock both moved at the same time, wedging their fingers in and trying to lift up. Sherlock grabbed the axe from John and used its blade as a fulcrum. It worked better, and soon Greg had enough of a hold on the wood to pull it up and out of the coffin frame. He flung it clear, terrified and worried about what he'd find.

Lying in the actual bottom of the coffin was a small woman with hair soaked with sweat and god-knows-what else. She shook violently and squinted at the sudden brightness around her. The stench of body odor and urine and something sickly sweet rose up and turned Greg's stomach. "Jesus," he hissed. They all stared.

John was the first one to move. He dove into the job, checking her over for visible injury before reaching behind her head to undo the gag and tend to her. Sherlock growled and ran from the room. Greg stood, feeling useless, wanting to help, and the feeling of nameless guilt crawled up his throat again before he could quash it.

"Greg," John said, pulling him back into focus. "Find me a blanket and a glass of water."

Greg blinked and hurried, checking all the rooms for something that could be used as a blanket before finding the lav and someone's coffee mug. He didn't think sanitation was really of utmost importance at a time like this, so he filled it and carried it over to John mostly without spilling.

He delivered it and scrubbed his hands on his trousers, feeling a right useless prat. His first aid knowledge was nothing to John's, and Sherlock— Suddenly, Greg knew just where Sherlock had went. With a sinking feeling, Greg ran out and down the corridor to the front room. He found Sherlock pacing agitatedly. The room was otherwise empty.

"He's gone," Greg said, immediately regretting it.

"Obviously." Sherlock seemed to have intended it to be a scathing response, but more than that he just seemed shaken. "That dolt Hennipin failed to hold him."

"And where is _he_?"

"Outside. Presumedly failing to put out an APW on Schlessinger." Sherlock turned in him. "Your idiots should have cuffed him immediately."

"Sherlock, we didn't have any way to know—"

"Where the hell were you? John and I were waiting."

Greg stopped short. "I was, er…"

"Oh, of course," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's why he knew to call and have us uncuffed. Well. At least your dalliance had _some_ purpose."

Greg's tongue seemed not to be working properly. "Sherlock…" he finally said.

"It would have been a treat to see John smash open a coffin with handcuffs on, don't you think?" Sherlock said, sarcasm twisting his mouth.

"Sherlock—"

"This whole thing was bungled from the start. What the hell is wrong with you, Lestrade? Can't you get your dick sucked and _think_ at the same time?"

Fury like flame licked at the edges of Greg's guilt. "What the hell have YOU been doing? Only calling me in when it was nearly too late?"

"Would you have even answered my texts if I HAD been sending them?"

"How does it feel, Sherlock, to have your texts ignored?"

"Were you doing this on _purpose_?!"

Just as Sherlock stepped into Greg's personal space, the ambulance crew arrived. With a word from Greg they rushed back toward the crematorium. By the time they'd bustled past, Greg felt as if the air had been let out of his and Sherlock's argument. He flopped down into the desk chair and scrubbed his hands over his face.

"We need to find him," Sherlock said. "Even if he's not the man behind all this."

"No kidding," Greg said, voice muffled into his palms.

"He knows who is."

"Yes," Greg sighed. "I'd gotten that, Sherlock."

"He was too ineffectual to be the mastermind. He didn't even anticipate that John was going to punch him."

Greg let his hands fall, though he still leaned forward on his knees. "Sherlock," he said, blinking up at him, "do I want to know why John punched him?"

"He was getting shirty," Sherlock said.

"The director or John?"

Sherlock slanted him an amused half-smile. "Both?"

They chuckled for a moment: a nervous, dry laugh that was less about humour than the diffusion of tension.

Greg ran his hand through his hair. "And I suppose you were being a perfect angel."

"I had absolutely no contact with the man whatsoever."

"Because you were breaking in from the back door."

"I don't know what gives you that impression."

"Ohh…" Greg waved a hand, "only everything you've ever done."

Sherlock rubbed his hand over his mouth to hide his smile.

Greg let the moment hang there for a moment before he sighed. "Sherlock, you should have—"

"I wasn't even going to phone you. John insisted."

"Sure, but if—"

"If I'd have waited until you arrived you wouldn't have let me investigate without a warrant. It was better if I did it on my own."

"That's not how it works, Sherlock."

Sherlock gestured to the back room. "Tell her that."

His dramatic tendency for perfect timing meant that right at that moment the medics were carrying out Carfax on a stretcher, with John toddling along behind looking life-weary.

"They had to sedate her," he said, and licked his lips, scratching at his scalp. "Quite right, too. I don't envy the, er, healing process ahead of her."

Greg watched Sherlock walk up to John, grab him by the shoulders, and study his face. They looked into each others' eyes for a long moment before John gave a quick nod. "I'm fine," he said quietly.

Sherlock rested his fingertips on the side of John's neck for a brief moment before stepping away again. "So," he said with a swirl of movement, "what are we doing about the owner?" He pressed his steepled fingers to his mouth. "Lestrade, you can send someone to go round his house. Catch him if he's idiotic enough to go home. John and I will—"

"There was a… Er. An assistant. She was in back. With the body."

Sherlock's eyes blew wide and intense as he stepped into Greg's personal space. "Who was she? Tell me about her. What did she look like? Did she speak? _Why did you let her get away?_ "

Greg grit his teeth. "Listen, Sherlock. At the time, I didn't have a reason to hold her."

"What? Why not?"

"Because as far as I knew then, the only crime that had been committed was _yours._ "

Sherlock's brows drew down and his lips pursed, and he looked for a brief moment like an angry muppet. Greg rolled his eyes and turned away to speak to John. "Listen. I'm going to go make sure there are officers on what's-his-name's—" Greg picked up the name plaque on the desk and glared at it. "—Schlessinger's house. Phone me if— _when_ anything comes up." He glared at Sherlock, scowled round the room, and shoved his hands into his pockets for his mobile as he stalked out.

* * *

On the way to his car, Greg arranged for the search for Schlessinger to begin. Then he flopped down behind the wheel, closed the door against the world, and let out a heavy breath. He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to disconnect from reality for a moment.

A knock on the passenger-side window shocked him back. He blinked, and wordlessly unlocked the car, settling back into his seat and staring at the number plate of the Renault parked in front of him.

"Do you follow me around just so you can dramatically appear according your whim?"

"It didn't go well," Mycroft said, deftly ignoring him.

"No."

"Sherlock?"

"Isn't really my problem right now."

Mycroft paused. "Is that so."

"There was a woman who—" Greg picked at the fake stitching on his steering wheel. _Skeuomorph_ , he thought, trying to avoid pretty much everything in the entire world. Greg could feel the weight of Mycroft's gaze beating down on him like the summer sun. "She was nearly incinerated. Alive. She would have been, if I'd been three seconds later."

Mycroft didn't say a word.

"Sherlock was waiting for me. He." Greg stopped and fumbled for his car charger, using the delay to grasp for a way into this conversation. When he'd connected his phone up, he sat back and started again. "I should have been reachable. It was my fault that she was nearly killed."

"You were working. You hadn't noticed your battery was dead, but it doesn't follow that that means—"

"If I— If _we_ hadn't been side-tracked, I would have plugged my phone in immediately and would have got Sherlock's messages a lot sooner. She might not have been locked in the coffin yet, Sherlock wouldn't have had to lie his way into the building, and." Greg sighed. He rubbed his face with his hand.

"I understand the frustration, but guilt solves nothing, Gregory."

"It was _careless._ " Greg dared to look into Mycroft's face for a brief moment, but he had to look away again immediately. "A woman nearly died, because of us. She was three seconds away from it. Three."

Mycroft's usually-mobile fingers fell silent. "We deal in matters of life and death every day," he said. His voice was quiet.

"If she'd died, it would have been directly our fault. Unintentionally. Just for the sake of getting laid."

They sat with that together, thinking. Raindrops began to patter on the metal roof of Greg's car.

"I mean." Greg cleared his throat, picking free a flap of plastic from the worn seam of the wheel. "Can you honestly say that you've been at your best the last several months?”

Mycroft took a long time to answer. "I cannot."

"Your job can't afford your lack of focus any more than mine can."

"No."

"This isn't the first time our— This isn't the first time we've let…” If Greg had eaten any time recently, he thought it would have been fighting the wrong way through his digestive tract. But as it was, he only experienced a queasy sort of tension in his stomach. "We've let this get way out of hand."

Mycroft didn't say a word. He just nodded, once, and shifted in his seat so his umbrella was resting against his outer leg.

"Do you agree?"

He heard Mycroft swallow even over the increased white noise of the rain on the roof. Their breath had fogged up the windows, and Greg fiddled with the dials of the climate control. "I agree," Mycroft finally said.

Greg leaned back and tucked his hands into his lap. "Okay," he said, and bobbed his head. "So." They sat in silence, letting the rain fall all round them.

"I'll not keep you any longer," Mycroft said, wrapping his fingers around the handle of his umbrella. "I'm sure you have a lot of things to do. What with these new developments, you must have work—"

"I do." Greg braved a wan smile at him, and Mycroft echoed it for only a half-second before pushing out of the car. The wet sounds of the city seemed very loud with the door open.

"Do be in touch, Inspector."

The door closed. "Goodbye, Mycroft," Greg said to the steering wheel.

He sat there for a minute and a half, breathing, forcing his brain not to think about him, trying to focus on work, before he could convince himself to put the car into drive. He eased out into traffic, fighting down the roil in his gut. It wasn't a big deal. After a short period of readjustment his body would go back to the way it was before he'd gotten used to sex on offer, and he'd be able to focus more fully on his life. It would be better this way.

Greg envisioned with longing a quiet office and a hot cup of black tea and a closed door and a mountain of paperwork to keep his mind busy. Unfortunately, the only one of those comforts he could manage was a shit cup of drive-through tea on his way to wherever the hell Schlessinger lived. He sighed as the rain loudly turned to a torrent. It was the reality of the situation, and there was nothing for it. He would have to make do.

It really _would_ be better this way.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John had stuck his hands deep in his pockets and looked like he was trying to use the heat of his frustration to stay warm, and Greg didn’t know how Sherlock could laugh off the water that had to be permeating his shoes; the alley they were tucked into was mostly puddle. Greg had reasonable shoes and a decent coat, but he was still fucking freezing._
> 
>  
> 
> Greg's night starts off less-than ideal. It never really gets any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks go to my betas Mazarin221B, BilliethePoet, and HiddenLacuna, who are generous with their time, advice, and support. I appreciate them immensely.

Schlessinger was truly a bastard.

For the past three days he had evaded capture, but Greg knew it was only a matter of time before he made some sort of move. There was an entire building set up in his name as a front for a religious institution of a cultish sort, and Sherlock informed Greg (eventually) that Schlessinger would be expected to appear as the prophet and saviour for the forty-three brainwashed idiots (Sherlock’s words) inside.

Carfax wasn’t talking much, either. It was clear she was going to need a lot of time to recover from the trauma, but what they did manage to discern was she was a reporter investigating Schlessinger’s operation from the outside. He’d caught her half a week earlier searching through his files, and he had kept her sedated until they could find a way to dispose of her in his funeral home.

So now they were gathered in a dank alley, in the dark, in the cold and wet and misery, investigating the next arm of the case. He, Sherlock, and John had come to an alley across from Schlessinger’s main religious complex in the city, where a journalist named Gwen Lucca waited. Her wife and partner, Emma, was undercover in the complex, and with all that Sherlock had kicked over the hornet’s nest with his pursuit of Schlessinger, they feared lives were in danger. If nothing else, Greg’s research had indicated that Schlessinger had ties to notorious hitman Joseph Jordan. Emma in particular could be in real trouble.

Greg turned up the collar on his jacket against the worsening drizzle. “Sherlock, what makes you think Emma is still alive in there?”

“I don’t know she’s still alive in there.”

“What happens if she doesn’t make her report tonight?”

“Then we move on to plan B.”

“What’s plan B?”

Sherlock pretended he didn’t hear him. “Gwen, you said Emma usually checks in from the third window from the right.”

“And three floors up,” the woman next to them said. She seemed to be the only one dressed for the weather. John had stuck his hands deep in his pockets and looked like he was trying to use the heat of his frustration to stay warm, and Greg didn’t know how Sherlock could laugh off the water that had to be permeating his shoes; the alley they were tucked into was mostly puddle. Greg had reasonable shoes and a decent coat, but he was still fucking freezing. “She waits until the rest of the congregation is at prayer and then sneaks out to the toilets with a flashlight. That's how she communicates. In code.”

“And she made her report last week?” Sherlock said.

Gwen nodded. “Like clockwork.” She bit her nails, staring up at the window. The hope and the worry in her eyes were obvious even in the watery reflection from the streetlamp.

“Sherlock,” Greg said. “And what about Jordan? You’re sure he’s still away? He hasn’t—” He cast a look sideways at the concerned woman next to them. Greg searched for a graceful way to say it. “You’re sure Jordan hasn’t been back in a week?”

“Nor has Schlessinger,” Sherlock said. “I’m sure of it.”

“So she’s…”

“Yes. I’m sure she’s still alive. At least, I'm mostly sure.”

“ _Sherlock,_ ” said John, a low threat.

“What? Isn’t that reassuring?”

John sighed heavily, and Greg clasped her shoulder for a moment of support.

“Jordan’s mother has been ill,” Gwen said, and punctuated that fact with a humourless chuckle. “Funny, that he should have family, let alone a mother he tends to. Someone like him. I have a source who tells me they’re very close.”

“Your source is not incorrect,” came a familiar voice from a shadow in the mouth of the alley.

“Oh _god_ ,” Sherlock said, sounding like a whinging fifteen-year-old.

Mycroft stepped further into the alley, umbrella over his head, looking dry and cozy and comfortable. _He’s probably just left his car,_ Greg thought, and a frustrated portion of his brain wished he felt he could ask to go sit in it for a while and warm up. They hadn’t seen nor spoken to each other since that afternoon at the funeral home, however, and with the way they left it he was fairly certain he no longer had that latitude. Besides which, Mycroft’s presence here, again, where Greg was supposed to be working, grated at him. He didn’t want the distraction, and—as had been proven—Mycroft was nothing if not a distraction. Greg could feel his proximity from yards away.

"We don't need your help right now,” said Greg.

"I wasn't planning to offer you assistance."

“Then why are you here? You're going to blow our cover." Greg frowned and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I thought I'd inform you that Joseph Jordan has left our surveillance."

"Left your— What are you talking about, Mycroft?" Greg took a step back as Mycroft strolled further into the alley.

"We had been keeping track of his whereabouts up until 3pm this afternoon, returning from Slough. We have not yet rediscovered his tracks.”

“If you felt it necessary to poke your sagging nose in,” Sherlock said, “you could have just phoned. You didn’t have to put in an appearance. Or did you want to play Lord and Saviour, come to save us from ourselves?”

“I did not think alerting you was necessary until twenty minutes ago, when I was informed about this little operation. Surely you’re aware how dangerous he is.”

 _Of course we are, you presumptuous arsehole._ Anger flared in Greg’s chest. He opened his mouth to tell Mycroft off, but Sherlock beat him to it.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, making a show of looking past him toward the street and Schlessinger’s building.

“Then you’ll know that he’s had ample time to return here and prepare for any…steps he’s been assigned to take.”

“Mycroft,” Greg said, trying desperately to think of him as ‘Sherlock’s brother’ and ‘government agent’, and not ‘the man in whose mouth I used to rather like sticking my tongue’, even as he felt the growing urge to punch him. Greg wondered if John felt this conflicted all the time. “Do I want to know why you know about Jordan?”

Mycroft turned his gaze on Greg. It felt like he was being x-rayed. “Whether you want to know or not, I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

“Of course not.” Fresh resentment rose up in Greg’s throat and vulcanised his resolve. He felt Mycroft looking at him for an extra beat, but he refused to catch his eye.

"Well, that's…” John cleared his throat and glanced between all of them. “Thank you. But you should go. If he does show up…”

"Quite right." Mycroft changed the angle of his umbrella slightly, and silhouetted by the streetlamp the movement looked like a brisk, stiff bow. "Good luck, Inspector. Sherlock. John.” He canted his head in Gwen’s direction as well before slinking off into the shadows, likely back to his car.

Against his more bitter instincts, Greg hoped he got there safely. Jordan was a dangerous hitman, a hired assassin, and Schlessinger’s muscle. Knowing he could be lurking round didn’t sit easily in Greg’s stomach.

They stood and waited a while longer, all of them staring up at the building, waiting for a light to flash in an upper window. Sherlock growled, “Stay here,” and made for the mouth of the alley.

“Where are you going?” John said, stepping forward as if to follow him.

“I said stay here. We’ll call attention to ourselves out in a group. I’m going to go see if I can determine if Jordan is around.”

He left abruptly, leaving John looking immensely put out. Gwen wandered nearer the entrance and hunched down into the shadows, leaving Greg and John to hold down their place in the oceanic puddle.

“Arrogance runs in the family,” Greg said. He paced back and forth a few times, trying to work off some of his excess frustration and hoping to stay just a few degrees warmer.

By the sharp look John shot him, Greg supposed his tone was a bit more pointed than he’d meant it to be. “What happened with you, anyway? It looked like…" John half shrugged. “It looked like it was going really well."

"A bit too well."

"Too well?"

"We needed to focus. We had priorities that— We needed to focus."

John narrowed his eyes. “On your work."

"Yeah."

"No…reason to try to stick together."

Greg lowered his voice. “We weren't _together_. We were only shagging occasionally. There was no attempt at a relationship."

"Just sex."

" _Yes._ I've told you this. Seven or twelve times. Why is it so hard to imagine Mycroft needing to get a leg over sometimes?"

"Well actually,” John pulled a ridiculous face. “I try very hard not to imagine it."

"Oh, shut up." It helped a little, John’s teasing. "As if I want to think about you and himself. He probably tries to do experiments on you in your sleep."

“Well. There _was_ this one time—"

Greg spun away. “NOPE. I don't want to know.” He smirked at the punchy, bemused look in John’s eye. "Honestly, I've dragged his skinny, stoned arse out of the Thames when he was high as a kite and smelled of rotting, wet garbage. That'd put you off someone for life."

"So I don't have to fear you'll steal him out from under me?"

" _Under_ you, specifically?”

Sherlock chose that moment to stalk back into the alley. He stopped still and glared at the two of them snickering like schoolboys. "What are you talking about—augh. Juvenile. Let's go.” His eyes flashed. “If we move quickly we can catch Jordan in the act.” He turned to where Gwen was emerging from the shadows. “Stay here in case Emma transmits a signal.” He spun around to leave. Before he exited he said over his shoulder to the alley, “Leave the childish conversation behind, will you? I don’t need sophomoric nonsense cluttering up my investigation.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline, and he shook his head as he and John made to follow. “Yeeeah. No, absolutely. He's all yours."

They fell silent as they trailed behind Sherlock, but Greg would be lying to himself if he said he didn't cast a few glances down the pavement, wishing traitorously in the back of his mind for the appearance of a familiar silhouette.

* * *

“Jordan is on the roof,” Sherlock said as they crept along the back of the building. “He’s in position to shoot Emma Lucca through the window when she finally transmits her communication.”

Alarmed, Greg checked his phone for any texts from Gwen. There was nothing.

“Do you mind, Lestrade? You’re announcing our presence to all the rats in London.”

“As if your voice doesn’t do worse,” said John.

“Shh,” Greg said to both of them. He looked up, up, toward the roof, guarding his eyes from raindrops and expecting at any moment to see a head and shoulders peer over the edge and to hear the ricochet of a bullet. Or worse. He slammed into Sherlock’s back when he stopped short and would have toppled over if not for John’s steadying hand on his bicep.

“I’m going to go up to the roof,” Sherlock said after he’d gathered the three of them all together for a quiet conference below the steady hiss of rain falling. “The plan is for Lestrade to guard in case he goes out the front, and for John to come up the back entrance.”

It was unclear which of them, Greg or John, started giggling first, but apparently neither had yet cleared themselves of sophomoric humour that night. Sherlock’s eyeroll was audible.

“Not—” Greg coughed out the last of that bout of giggles, because Sherlock’s plan had a serious error. “Not a chance, Sherlock. I’m the only one of us who is actual police. I’ll take him in.”

“No.”

“What makes you think you can do it alone?” John asked, and it wasn’t obvious whether he was talking to Sherlock, Greg, or both.

“I should have called for backup an hour ago,” Greg said. His head was starting to pound already. He was going to be in so much shit.

“We don’t have _time_ for that now,” said Sherlock.

“Look,” John said. His hand on Greg’s arm squeezed like a vice. “Both of you. I’ll guard the back stairs on my way up, make sure he doesn’t come down that way. Sherlock and Greg, take the front, one behind the other. All three of us converge on the roof.”

“What could possibly go wrong?” said Greg, letting sarcasm dry his voice.

* * *

As it turned out, it could have gone worse. But it definitely could have gone better.

Caught in the web of Sherlock’s loquacious confrontation, Jordan missed John slipping onto the roof from the access door. John took him down from behind before Greg had even stepped from the shadows behind him to the roof proper. Jordan flipped John away like a bear knocking off a wolverine, and then Sherlock stepped in for a piece of the action. He ducked a blow then thrust himself forward to slam a skinny shoulder into Jordan’s diaphragm. It barely made a dent. Jordan made a strange “oomph” sound but only knit his brow and gathered himself together for retaliation. Greg considered going in to help, but realised that someone had to guard the door in case Jordan made a run for it. Instead he stood at the ready, knees bent and his handcuffs poised for use.

Soon Sherlock was bent over, having taken a blow to the solar plexus, and John was hanging off Jordan’s back in an attempt to drag the brute down. Jordan listed sideways, trying to swing John off, but true to form John was clasped on tight. Jordan tried the other side to no avail, and by that point John managed to get one arm more firmly around Jordan’s neck, apparently to choke him.

It didn’t appear to be working very well, or perhaps Jordan’s skin was too wet to get much purchase on, because he wasn’t going down. Greg peered closer. It was obvious even in the watery light cast by the moon that Jordan was fussing with something at his waistline. Did John have a leg around him for grip? For several seconds Greg stood motionlessly and squinted to see what was going on. The sound of the rain hitting the gravel roof surrounded them, a sizzling sound broken only by the groans and panting of the fight going on not fifteen feet away.

All at once, there was a loud report that replaced the hiss with a ringing, and bright pain bloomed throughout Greg’s upper arm. It stole his breath all at once and knocked him to his knees. The sick sensation of something being deeply wrong swam in his stomach.

He missed what happened with the rest of the wrestling match. The next thing he became aware of was John at his side, trying to peel Greg’s right hand away from protecting his arm. He found himself unable to stop fighting John about it, as if by keeping it covered he could undo whatever had been done. But after John tossed the fallen handcuffs in Sherlock’s direction he managed to yank Greg’s hand away and shove his face close to the wound.

“I can’t—” John growled. “I can’t see.” Light from a small torch appeared over his shoulder. “Ta,” John muttered to Sherlock. Greg was trying to breathe. His arm felt like it had been lanced by fire, and flames were still licking at his skin. He realised he was shaking, and tried to shove his hand into the pocket of his jacket, but it was like trying to direct a rubber marionette with chopsticks. Greg gave up in frustration and clenched his jaw.

“Handkerchief,” John pronounced, holding his hand over his shoulder. Sherlock made a wheedling noise, and John shook his hand vehemently. The movement reverberated down his body and jostled Greg’s arm. He hissed. “Sorry,” John said to him, then directed another bark of _handkerchief_ to Sherlock, who produced one from his pocket with a leaden sigh.

“Sorry to be such a—“ Whatever John was doing to his arm now, Greg was momentarily stabbed with enough pain that the words were shocked from his throat. “…Nuisance,” he continued, rolling his eyes up to Sherlock.

“You’ll buy me a new one,” Sherlock said, but the words were only softly sardonic and there was a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, next time I’m shot I’ll try to be more convenient.”

Before Sherlock could respond John cut in. “You’ll be fine. It’s deep, but it’s technically just a graze.”

“Why does it _hurt_ so fucking much?”

From several inches away, John just blinked at him. “Because it’s a four-inch cut slicing up your arm.” He didn’t add _moron_ , but he might has well have. “That sort of thing always hurts like a bitch.” Greg wondered how John knew. It sounded as if it had happened to him more than once, and for all he knew, it might have. “Here, keep pressure on it. Can you raise it up higher? Sherlock, when will backup be here?”

“Three minutes, I imagine.”

“You’ll live.” John helped him stand.

He felt a little out of it, but already the adrenaline was helping with the pain. “Where’s Jordan?”

“Out cold and handcuffed to a pipe.”

“How very neat of you,” Greg said. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the dark lump on the ground near one of the low barrier walls.

“You mean efficient,” Sherlock corrected.

“Shut up,” John said.

Greg wanted to laugh at them, but his stomach was just a little too turned-over to manage it. “This is all your fault somehow,” he said to Sherlock.

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock said, and he spun on his heel and stalked off in the direction of the lump that was Jordan.

“Come on,” said John. “Let’s go meet the response team downstairs.”

By the time they got downstairs John believed Greg when he maintained he could walk just fine without help, but didn’t appear to believe him when he said the wound didn’t hurt. Which was only partly true: the pain was coming back, having changed in flavour from something bright to something dark and threatening, and now Greg could feel his pulse throughout his entire arm. It was all deeply unsettling.

The ambulance tech had managed to coax him out of his sodden jacket and shirt in order to assess the damage. Greg wasn’t out of it too much to notice the nod that passed between them as John handed him off and left to go assist Sherlock. She took a look at it and, sooner than he expected, he was temporarily patched up and directed to go to A&E for a few stitches.

“That’s it?” he said to her.

She smirked at him. “That’s it,” she said. “Have someone drive you.”

He frowned. “But I’ve been shot.”

She patted him on the other shoulder. Her hair was pretty—blonde and in a french braid—and it seemed to glow in the moonlight. Greg thought it was possible he was going a bit mad. “Yes,” she agreed and went to go help her partner take care of Jordan, who was just emerging from the building under the care of several PCs, John, and Sherlock.

Greg stared after her, feeling a bit let down for some reason. He looked around at the bustling crime scene and wondered if Sherlock had properly caught Jordan in the act, if Emma Lucca was okay, what was going to happen to Schlessinger, and—most unsettling of all—whether Mycroft was going to pull another one of his magical appearing tricks.

He rang Donovan to come drive his car home (“Typical. The Freak drags you out on a case and _you’re_ the one who gets shot.”), then phoned for a cab. Sherlock and John were off somewhere dealing with a few very lucky members of uniform, backup were presumably securing Schlessinger’s building, and everything was out of his hands for the rest of the night. Greg was left feeling woozy and annoyed on the wet pavement to wait for his ride to A &E.

By the time he was dropped off at home in the wee hours of the morning, patched up and with antibiotics, Greg only had answers to two of those questions: Yes, they had Jordan for attempted murder, and no, Mycroft wouldn’t show up at all that night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greg stood for a moment, thinking about it, and the frustration rose up in his throat. He threw the stress ball hard into the corner of his office, satisfied at the loud banging noise as it bounced around between the wall and a file cabinet before rolling beneath a chair and coming to a rest. His opposite shoulder protested, letting out a warm ache that spread through his bones. Suddenly Greg was very, very tired._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks go to my betas Mazarin221B, HiddenLacuna, and BilliethePoet, who are liberal with their insight, whether about character growth or hair fuses. They complete me.

Having been shot in the arm was a massive pain in the arse.

By the second day Greg was entirely sick of the ache, of not being able to sleep on his accustomed side, and of the fact that he constantly had to be aware of how he was moving so he didn’t pull the three measly stitches holding together the deepest subcutaneous layers. In his less frustrated moments he recognised that he’d gotten off easy; it could have hit muscle—or worse. Still, his patience was on a hair trigger and he knew it.

It was almost impossible not to know it. Sally informed him of the fact nearly every time she saw him.

“God, what is your _problem_?” she said. “I’m offering to buy you lunch.”

“And I’m saying I don’t care what it is,” Greg said. “Why do you keep asking?”

“I wanted to do something nice for you. You’re being an arse.”

“I just don’t want to make the damn decision. That’s all.” He swallowed down a growl of annoyance. “Thank you for the offer, but I _really_ don’t care.”

“I’ll decide for you, shall I?”

“Sure.” _You know what I like. Just go away._ Which, thankfully, she did, spinning on her heel and almost-but-not-quite slamming his office door behind her.

He sighed heavily and scrubbed his palms over his face. It was obvious something more than just the deep cut was bothering him, but he refused to analyse what it could be.

There was paperwork in front of him, and he picked it up to look it over. It was the report about the Jordan case. They'd secured Schlessinger’s cult building and Emma Lucca had got enough evidence to take down the entire organisation. Now all the police had to do was find him, though the longer he was at large the less Greg believed that would actually happen.

A memory of the fight on the roof flashed up in Greg’s mind, and he considered the ease with which John and Sherlock had worked together. Their movements had almost seemed choreographed, a dance of who would attack and who would play decoy, of ducking and jumping, which sometimes required no more than a word to communicate what the plan was before both would follow through. He wondered if they drilled at home or whether this was a signal of how in tune with each other they truly were. 

Greg allowed several fanciful moments to feel sorry for himself and alone in the world, and then shook it off; it was time for his painkillers and antibiotics, and long past time to get on with his life. He stood to get himself some more coffee, stretched generously, and was annoyed at the tremor in his limbs and the ache in his bones. He felt ancient, weak, like a lonely and toothless old man. It seemed like an apt metaphor for something. Or perhaps…perhaps it was more than a metaphor.

 _Enough_ , he thought, and went to get his mug.

* * *

Sally got them both shepherd’s pie, which turned out to be exactly the right thing. He smiled gratefully at her, mouth full. She smiled back.

They sat in his office and ate in relative silence, a blessing he’d not even considered until he was feeling thankful for it. She left with only a squeeze of his uninjured shoulder.

He sighed into his coffee and contemplated his afternoon spread out before him. He felt like a million ants were crawling underneath his skin, but also as if he didn’t have the energy to handle anything more taxing than typing. He prayed desperately that nothing more would come up that day.

It turned out that no murders would cross his desk, but that didn’t mean the rest of his day would go easily. About 3pm his phone rang. He answered it in spite of seeing who it was—in part because he was curious why she was calling, and part because he knew it would only be worse later on if he didn’t speak to her. It was a lesson he’d learned early on his his 27-odd years knowing her.

“Hi, Vic.”

"I need you to talk some sense into Sharon."

“Hello to you, too.”

She sighed. “Hello, how are you?”

“Fine.” He neglected to mention the arm. She seldom reacted well to him getting hurt in the line; apparently the sexiness of having a cop for a husband was all well and good in theory, but in practice it had given her more than a few nightmares. Greg still felt badly about that, but there was nothing he could do. …Except, apparently, not tell her when he was hurt. He doubted it was the healthiest of options. “How are you?”

“I need you to talk to Sharon.”

He did not roll his eyes. “Why? What's she done?"

"It's not what she's done. It's what she _wants_ to do. In the States."

"Huh?" He frowned in confusion and wondered if the antibiotic was making him dozy.

"She hasn't told you?"

"No."

"She plans to go to LA to finish up her studies."

It drove him to his feet. He started to pace around his office. “What. Seriously?!"

"She's been accepted for some sort of film programme over there."

"No way." He grinned.

"She can't go, Greg. It's too expensive."

He stared into the middle distance, eyes jumping, trying to figure where his next handhold was in this conversation. ”Was it competitive?"

"Was what competitive?"

"The programme?"

"The— Yeah, I guess so..."

"Then we'll make it work,” he said, already thinking about ways he could cut back on his own finances to make it easier for her.

"Greg, it's too expensive."

"We'll make it work." Maybe he could do without Sky Plus for the few months she’d be there…

"How do you propose we do that?"

"I don't know yet. You only just told me about it.” He massaged between his eyes. It felt as if he was getting a headache. “But she's not a stupid girl, Vic. She probably has some ideas already. Did you ask?"

"No. I didn't want to ruin her excitement."

It sounded just solicitous enough that Greg became suspicious. “You want me to ask, don’t you.”

"Please." She didn’t sound frustrated so much as scared.

"Vic.” He sighed. “We’ve got to let her go, babe."

"She's only twenty-one! She can't just—"

"She's pretty much an adult. She's more adult than either of us are sometimes, I think."

Victoria heaved a sigh at him. "Well that's not fair."

"But it's true."

There was a weighty silence at the other end. "Ask her about finances."

"Did she say how long she'd be gone?"

"Two years."

It was the first time in this conversation that his stomach got in on the reaction. It clenched. "Two _years_?!"

"You see?"

Two years with his little girl in the States. Never mind the current frustration of trying to talk her into coming down for the weekends. It would be time-consuming and expensive for her even to come back for Christmas. “God. Well. I mean. Okay. Fuck." His mind spun.

"What did you think I meant?"

"I thought you were saying for…like…a term."

“Two years. She'll be back summers. And their Christmas hols are a little over a month.”

"Jesus. Well. I'll. Okay. I'm going to call her."

"Okay."

"Vic.”

"Hmm?"

"Let her be happy about this, okay?"

It was obviously the wrong thing to say, but for some reason he didn’t stop the words before they slipped out. She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke she sounded immensely irritated with him. If he was feeling honest with himself, she had a right to be; he didn’t have to needle her so much. ”I am," she said coldly.

“We can still come up with a plan between ourselves, right?"

He’d tried to soften the blow, but she wasn’t taking the misdirection. "I _am_ letting her be happy about this, Greg. Jesus."

"Okay." He swallowed.

"You're not the only one who loves her."

"For fuck's sake..."

"I don't like how you imply I'm some monster who—"

"God. I'm going to go.” He was definitely getting a headache. “That's not what I was saying."

"It's what you were implying."

"No. I just—" Greg picked up the stress ball from the window ledge and gave it a particularly vicious squeeze. "I don't want her to feel like the logistics are too worrisome. That's all."

"But the logistics ARE worrisome."

"Yeah, but she's just going to cancel the trip if she thinks it'd be a hardship." It was what she did: never wanting to be a bother, always putting other people first. Greg found it sweet, but it was occasionally annoying when he _wanted_ to do something nice for her.

"…Fine."

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

"She will,” he emphasised.

"I _know_ , Gregory."

The name echoed strongly in Greg's head, doubling with the way Mycroft said it, and Greg felt a little nauseated. "Okay."

"Tell me when you've talked to her."

"Vic?” he said before she rang off.

"Hm."

"I'd miss her too, you know."

There was a moment of silence before she simply said, ”Bye, Greg,” and the line clicked.

Greg stood for a moment, thinking about it, and the frustration rose up in his throat. He threw the stress ball hard into the corner of his office, satisfied at the loud banging noise as it bounced around between the wall and a file cabinet before rolling beneath a chair and coming to a rest. His opposite shoulder protested, letting out a warm ache that spread through his bones. Suddenly Greg was very, very tired.

He turned to stare at the paperwork spread over his desk. Behind him, there was a brief knock on the door to his office and Sally opened it without waiting for a response.

“You all right in here?”

Greg swallowed down the well of emotions in his throat. “Yeah.”

“I heard a noise.”

“I dropped something.” He didn’t turn around.

“Okay,” she said after a moment, obviously not believing him in the slightest.

“Sally—“ said Greg before she closed the door again. He finally turned to look at her. “I’m not feeling great. I think I’m going to head home early.”

She visibly assessed him, and he let her. “Okay,” she said quietly, with a quick nod. “Good idea.”

“Call me if anything comes up.”

A small smile played at the corner of her mouth. “Sure.”

“Right.” He wiped the palms of his hands on his trousers and turned to mentally gather all the things he wanted to bring home with him. All of a sudden, he felt immensely stupid and out of sorts. _Jacket, bag, folder of paperwork…_ “Er. Right.”

“Feel better, sir,” she said, and “have a good weekend.” Then she was gone.

* * *

He shouldn’t have put off calling Sharon.

By the next day, the headache and lethargy had swelled up into full-blown flu. Greg huddled into a nest of blankets on the sofa, forcing himself to swallow tea through a sore throat and watching endless episodes of The West Wing. The world felt chemical, hard, and all he wanted was a bit of comfort. Throughout the morning, however, he heard Victoria’s warning voice in his head, and—like holding up a flash card for only seconds at a time—kept offering his psyche small glimpses of the worry he’d feel while Sharon was gone. He'd let himself feel it for only a brief moment before pushing the feeling away again. He waited until his afternoon dose of paracetamol kicked in before calling her.

“Hey Daddy,” Sharon said gently. With a sudden burst of understanding, he knew Victoria had warned her he’d be calling.

“Hey sweetheart. How are you?”

“You sound like shit,” she said.

He tried to laugh, but it hurt. He coughed. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He didn’t have to see her cheeky grin to know it was there.

Greg once again tried to find a comfortable way to huddle and still not put too much pressure on his arm. So far he hadn’t found one. “How’s school?”

“Eh. Fun. Dull. Both at the same time. Which seems impossible. And yet.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Sounded like his job, sometimes. Add in ‘frustrating’ and ‘dangerous’ and she had it exactly. He hoped her school wasn’t dangerous. Which… “Mum told me about your programme in LA.”

“Wow. Down to brass tacks.”

“I wish you’d warned me that you were applying, but.” He swallowed hard. Everything fucking hurt. “I’m so, _so_ proud of you.”

“Heh.” Her voice had the thready quality she got when she was fighting off tears. He knew how she felt. At least he could blame it on the flu. “Thank you.”

“Your mum talked to you about money stuff?”

“Sort of.”

“She flew off the handle immediately?”

“Well, not immediately, but… Yeah. Pretty much immediately.”

“Don’t worry. She’ll come around.”

“I know. Action first, thought second.”

“Aren’t you glad you take after me instead.”

She snorted at him. “Or I take after Aunt Beverly.”

“Nope. It’s all to do with me. Everything is about me.” He might have finally found a comfortable position, and tried not to fidget out of it.

Silence linked them for a few moments before she spoke. “Listen, I’ve been saving up a little, and I think I can get a job there. I have some calls in to people now. Don’t worry. I won’t go unless I know I can pay for it.”

“Your mum and I _can_ help you.”

“I know. But I’m old enough to be able to take care of this.”

Now he really felt like he was going to cry. “Okay, sweetheart.” He swallowed down the lump in his throat and decided to buy some time to get ahold of himself. “Tell me about the programme?”

Sharon went through her whole story, sounding at first as if she’d been practising it in front of the mirror, but once she relaxed into it her voice took on so much excitement that he found himself even more happy for her than he’d been before. “And there’s a mentoring programme, and sometimes film stars come in and give talks, and. I’m just.” She sounded like she was going to explode, and his heart gave a thump. “I’m so excited.”

“You sound it.” He grinned into the phone. “Is anyone else going with you?”

“One guy I vaguely know from one of my film history lectures also got in. Otherwise, nope.”

“You’ll meet people. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried about it,” she said, smiling. “Remember. They’re going to meet _me_.”

He couldn’t help wheezing out a chuckle. “Lucky them.”

“Stop laughing.” She giggled at him. “It sounds painful.”

“That’s because it is painful.” He kept doing it anyway.

“You have a cold?”

“Or something.”

“Staying home and drinking lots and fluids and getting rest?”

“Yes, mother.”

“See? You need someone there to bring you wonton soup.”

“I do have someone to bring me that stuff—which, wait a minute. I’m apparently allowed to eat takeaway with your blessing, now? Is that only because I’m ill?”

She fastened on the first part. “You do?”

There were several answers to her question, but he only focussed on the one option he was actually sure of. “Yeah. The delivery guy will bring me food any time up until about eleven.”

“Oh. I thought. Oh.” The disappointment in her voice made him wish momentarily that he and Mycroft had had the sort of relationship important enough to bring up with one’s kid. It would have been nice to ease her worry, at least on this topic. But he hadn’t spoken to the man since the alley outside Schlessinger’s, and the incident at the funeral home was nearly a week ago. There was a finality to it, somehow, and for Sharon’s sake that fact filled him with chagrin. He heard her take a breath. “The delivery guy isn’t going to tuck you in and run you a hot bath, though.”

“I hope not.”

“Why? Not cute enough for you?”

He blinked. Well. Er. The implications of her casual joke were distracting. If pressed, he would have said she wouldn’t care about the sex of any chosen companion, but to have outright confirmation of that fact… “He’s usually the spotty teenage son of the owner, so…”

“Yeaaah. No.”

“Yeah. No.”

“Bad plan.”

“ _Very_ bad plan.”

She chuckled. “Best to keep out of it, then.”

“Yeah, I can draw my own bath, thank you very much.”

Their conversation fell off a bit. “Listen, please don’t worry about me. Going away,” she said.

“I won’t if you won’t. About me being single.”

“Is that your way of saying ‘fat chance’?”

“Is that your way of saying you plan to continue worrying about me?”

“Mmmmaybe.”

“Why don’t you just let me be the parent for once?”

“You just left yourself open for a very snarky quip about ‘why don’t you act like a parent’.”

He snorted. “I thought you’d have more grace than to say it.”

“I do.”

“But you pointed it out.”

“I wanted you to be more careful next time.” If she hadn’t inherited from him his patience, she definitely inherited his bad habit of letting humour deflect from the serious part of a conversation. He wasn’t positive that was a good thing. 

“Oh, trust me. I will.”

“Good.”

Their banter was interrupted by a full minute of his hacking cough, and he reached for his tea.

“Ugh,” Sharon said. “Go take a nap or something. Steam yourself into oblivion in the shower. Jesus.”

“Not a bad idea.” What he really wanted was a massage—touch of any sort, really. He ached down to his bones, but his skin felt tender, too sensitive, and he craved the pleasant stimulation of someone else touching him. He curled up tighter into his nest of blankets.

“You’re not working tomorrow, right?”

“Not feeling like this I’m not.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow and check in.”

“You don’t have to do that, sweetheart.”

“Remember what I said before?”

He sighed. “Yes.”

“I’m practising for when you’re in your dotage.”

Against the advice of his lungs, Greg laughed. “You stop it right now.”

“Rest well, Daddy.”

“Have a good day.”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too.” He did, sometimes so much it hurt. This was definitely one of those times. The flu was making everything around him feel cold and alien, and he felt slightly estranged from reality, but the fake, plastic feeling he had about his surroundings melted before the emotions he was having about his daughter.

She rang off and he scrubbed his hands all over his face, through his hair, and down his upper arms. He brushed the bandage with his fingertips and debated the relative frustration of baths, showers, and not having to replace the dressing on his wound yet. He felt a pang of guilt for not telling her about being grazed by a bullet, but if she worried about him having something as simple as the flu there was no way that mentioning he’d been shot at was a good idea. 

Shoving aside vaguely unsettling judgements about his own shoddy communication skills, he dumped the blankets off himself and, shivering, went to draw himself a bath.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Things were good, all told. Weren’t they? He had a job he was good at, a reasonably-comfortable flat, a solid relationship with a daughter (who in truth was a bit too smart for comfort), an ex he could at least speak to without it devolving into shouting and tears, and his car was in decent repair. On paper he was doing just fine. So why did he feel so…at a loss?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks as always go to my betas Mazarin221B, HiddenLacuna, and BilliethePoet. They are generous with their time and amazing.

All told, Greg thought, it was not the pleasantest way to wake up he had ever encountered. He curled his fingers in toward his palm and then stretched them wide. The tendons ached.

"Sir, what happens with the—I mean, do you file the report? It was your house. Does someone else have to do it?"

Greg looked over at the home invader, the potential thief, the man with really, really bad luck and worse reflexes, who was sitting in the back of the police car with a grumpy expression on his face. Small wonder, too; to have picked the flat of a detective inspector was a poor decision on his part, accidental or not. But to have underestimated Greg's ability to hear and sneak up on him wielding the hardcover of Weaveworld which had been sitting at Greg's bedside…that was hubris and folly. Greg recalled the sensation of the book flying from his hands and the heavy pair of thuds as both it and the thief landed. He stretched his fingers again. They were shaking. For the fifth time that night, Greg was thankful the bullet wound was mostly healed.

"Sir?"

Greg came back to the present. "Er, I'm sorry Davies. I'm not— This is the first time this has happened to me. And I'm not—" _I'm not really here right now._ Why was he having so much trouble focussing? He handled worse than this every day.

The young man nodded. "Yes, I expect so. I'm just going to talk to Sergeant Weir." He reached toward Greg as if to pat him on the shoulder, but appeared to think better of it before disappearing into the fog of police lights.

By the time they all were gone—the police and the perpetrator alike—it was gone three and Greg's adrenaline had faded into a shaky miasma flooding through his bloodstream. He felt distinctly ill. He made himself a cup of tea, then toast, then poured himself two fingers of scotch in the search for something to settle his stomach. He didn't feel quite like going back to bed yet.

As proud as he thought Clive Barker would have been to know that his book made a fine weapon against a burglar, the prose itself couldn't seem to hold Greg's attention no matter how familiar it was. He reread the same paragraph three times before setting it aside and moving on to a biography of Chuck Yeager, but that was even worse. Chuck Yeager wouldn't be so shaky after pinning a man down and slapping cuffs on him in his own home. Yeager would had done it and taken a victory lap in a P-51 before going home and having sex with Glennis. He certainly wouldn't have been sitting in his lounge feeling distinctly adrenaline-sick and unable to shake the creeping sensation that someone had been in his home uninvited. He looked around at his stuff, finally unpacked and just where he liked it. It all seemed sullied, now.

His phone was in his hand before he thought better of it.

`Are you awake by any chance?`

Not twenty seconds later, it rang. "Gregory? What's the problem?"

"How do you know there's a problem?"

Mycroft sighed over the line. Oh, obvious. It was getting on towards four o'clock in the morning. "Please tell me what's happened."

"A bloke tried to rob me." _Or kill you,_ the voice of pessimism echoed in his head.

"What, tonight?"

"Just now. I took him down. They've booked him. I'm just—" Greg let out a breath. "I can't get back to sleep."

"Ah," Mycroft said, and let that lie. "Would you feel more comfortable with a change of venue?"

"I don't." Er. "I'm not sure I want to— I know it sounds daft, but I don't want to leave my house…alone, right now. If that makes any… Sorry, I don't think I'm making any sense."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Greg sat up in alarm. "What, over here?"

"… _Yeees_ ," Mycroft dragged out hesitantly. "Would that be a problem?"

Finally, the weight of what he'd done crashed in on Greg's consciousness. He'd called Mycroft. Things had gone just a little pear-shaped and Greg's reflex had been to call Mycroft, regardless of whether or not they were even speaking at the time. He wondered why that had happened. What was it about this situation that he thought Mycroft could fix?

Greg looked around to assess his tiny flat. Compared with Mycroft's palatial house it was cluttered and dusty, but the more he looked the more empty it felt. "No," he said, and his voice sounded rough. "I think that would be lovely."

* * *

Mycroft arrived thirty minutes later bearing coffee and a waxy bag from a local shop. "You're late," Greg quipped, feeling more relief than he'd expected at the sight and the smell and the presence of him. He gave Mycroft a cheeky grin, and the muscles in his shoulders relaxed.

"I apologise," Mycroft said. "I had unforeseen difficulties finding a place open whose staff were 'on their game', as the saying goes."

"You didn't have to bring anything.” Greg took the coffees and the bag from Mycroft and left him to deal with his own jacket. He set the drinks carton down on the little island between the kitchen and the lounge and peered into the package to investigate the pastries inside.

"Gregory." Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. "I was hardly going to allow you to make coffee at a time like this."

"I did earlier." Greg pointed to the cafetiére.

"And then you let it cool."

"That's not the point."

"Gregory," Mycroft started again. He walked over to stand in front of Greg. His hand came up and awkwardly hung in the air near the region of Greg's elbow, as if he couldn't decide whether he should touch or not. There was a moment where they looked at each other, then Mycroft's hand floated down to his side. "Please, just allow me to do this for you."

"I don't know why this is bothering me so much," Greg said.

"No need to feel embarrassed. It's understandable."

"I was a beat cop. I _am still_ a police officer."

"But this is your home."

"I see worse shit every day."

"Someone broke in while you were asleep. You had to go on alert immediately, and take action. I presume you had to use a weapon of some kind?"

Greg huffed a laugh and gestured toward the table in the lounge. "Weaveworld."

"Weaveworld?"

"The book."

"You brought down your burglar with a book?"

"I've been rereading it. It was the first thing that came to hand."

Mycroft laughed a peculiar chuckle. He head tilted, and the way he looked at Greg sent nerves fluttering low in his stomach. "A benefit to the perpetrator that you didn't own a cricket bat."

"Under the bed," Greg said, and tried to smile. "The book was easier."

"Good to know."

Greg looked around his flat, at everywhere but at Mycroft, then gestured at the pastries and the coffee. "Thanks," he said.

"It's my pleasure," Mycroft said. He ushered Greg toward the sofa. "What else can I do for you?"

Greg shrugged. His arm ached.

"I assume I never told you about Stinkers and the time he tried to steal the goat."

Arm abruptly forgotten, Greg collapsed into shaky laughter. "Depends. Did you go to school in a Jeeves and Wooster novel?"

The corner of Mycroft's mouth quirked up as he settled next to Greg on the sofa. "Sometimes it did seem that way," he said. "But we were all out of university by that point."

Greg laughed again. "That makes it worse, not better."

"Do you want to hear this story or not, Gregory?"

"Oh, absolutely."

It was an amusing anecdote, to be sure, involving a bed-and-breakfast in the north, a missing engagement ring, and a pair of giant white cotton pants. Greg giggled, but more than that he was soothed by the cadence of Mycroft's voice and by the gentle buzz of sound. Mycroft drank Greg's abandoned scotch as the story went on, and the air smelled of peat and Mycroft's deodorant and coffee and icing sugar. The combination lulled Greg into a soporific daze.

"…I'm ashamed to say we never let him forget it," Mycroft said, and took another sip of Greg's scotch.

Greg rasped in a sleepy breath and flexed against the back of the sofa, coming out of his dozy state. "You're not ashamed at all," he said, and stretched his arms and shoulders forward, arching his spine.

"No, I'm really not." He set the remainder of the scotch down on the side table. "Laphroaig?"

"Mmhmm." Greg listed sideways toward Mycroft's body. "Forget how old."

"I'd wager the 10 year."

Greg waved a hand. "Whatever."

Mycroft made a snicking noise. "Should we put you to sleep, Gregory?"

"M'fine."

"Mmhmm," Mycroft echoed Greg, consciously or not. He hesitated, then pulled Greg by the waist until he was leaning against his shoulder. The warmth of Mycroft's body was like a balm, and after a moment of hesitation Greg curled into it. He turned his head, pressed his face into Mycroft's shirtsleeve, and breathed. After a few frozen seconds, Mycroft shifted to wrap his arm around Greg's back so he was resting more against Mycroft's chest than anywhere else. Greg felt tension run from his body like water from a downspout.

He settled down further into Mycroft's side and closed his eyes at the gentle drag of Mycroft's palm up and down his arm. "Tell me another story?"

"What should I talk about?"

"Anything."

"Have I told you about the time a woman named Maizie pretended to be a fishmonger so she could find her favourite shoes?"

"You seldom really tell me anything," Greg said, eyes closed.

There was a heavy moment of silence in which Mycroft's hand stilled. "Then pay attention," he ordered. "This story becomes complicated."

When Greg blinked awake, he was curled up on the sofa alone. The lights were off, sun was peeking through the curtains, dawn-tinged and pink, and there was a blanket tucked around his shoulders. He would have thought the previous night a curious combination of dream and nightmare but for the hot cup of coffee steaming on the table. It had the name “Gregory” written on it with marker pen, and a note tucked up against it.

`I hope you're rested, and that your day improves. I'm pleased I was able to help last night. Feel free to call me at any time.`

`Sincerely,  
Mycroft`

Greg nearly reached out to pick it up, but he didn't. Instead he texted to say he'd be in late and then huddled back down onto the sofa to stare at the note and the coffee. The way he was oriented turned them both sideways in his vision, and he let that unfamiliar angle turn them into nothing more than meaningless shapes as his mind swirled gently with the sound of Mycroft's voice and the gentleness of his hands until eventually, inevitably, he fell back asleep.

* * *

“Oh thank god.” Sally walked in and plopped down onto one of the chairs in Greg’s office. “You’re cleaning your desk.”

“I’m glad I have your support,” Greg said, and binned an empty Lion bar wrapper.

“Support? I’m almost willing to help.”

“But only almost.”

“Yeah, I’m not quite there yet.” She grinned and crossed her arms, lounging. “What brought this on?”

“Procrastination.”

“Don’t feel like doing paperwork for the Lombard case?”

Greg grinned. “Not even a little.” He tossed the eyeball stress-toy to Sally. It bounced off her sternum but she caught it.

“You could probably go home a few minutes early,” she said, squeezing the ball and making the eye pop out toward her. She pulled a face, then did it again. “Get some rest.”

“Nah.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

A few long moments passed while he cleared out some mangled paper napkins and some elastic rubber bands that had melded together. Then Sally spoke. “So. How are you doing?” 

“Fine. Why?”

“Oh, just. I mean. The shooting. The housebreaking last night.” She stopped playing with the toy to peer at him.

“Oh.” He stood there, thinking about it, arms falling to his sides. “I really don’t know, actually. Fine, I think.”

“You sure?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I'm healing. Still glad it wasn't the other shoulder.” 

"The other...? Oh right. Tattoo." When she threw the stress ball it ricocheted off him to land on the desk, and he grabbed the thing before it could roll off. 

He squeezed it a few times, staring. "It would be a shame to ruin the work."

They stood in silence for some moments while he fiddled with the toy and she stared at the clutter on his desk. Then she spoke. “So. I’m done for today, and heading to the pub. You coming?”

He looked at her and suddenly there was nothing in the world he wanted more than a beer. “ _Yes._ ”

* * *

They ended up at the Hawk and Dove, along with everyone who wanted to watch the test match. Luckily, however, there was a single table available in the far corner, so they squeezed in before Sally went to get the first round.

“Well, that went well,” she said, coming back and sitting down to mop off her hands with a wad of napkins.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Some arsehole near the bar backed into me.”

“You’re going to smell like a basket full of hops.”

“No kidding.” She finished drying herself off and crumpled all the used napkins into a tight little ball. She murmured to herself, “Good thing Jason likes IPAs.”

Greg almost choked on his bitter. “So you’re going to his after?”

She looked sheepishly out the window when she realised what she said. “Yeah.”

“Spending a lot of time over there, aren’t you?”

She took a sip, eyebrows raised, pointedly saying nothing.

“Fine.” He smirked and drank a mouthful of his own. “Then will you tell me about the birthday party last weekend?”

That, at least, brought out a bright grin. “It went really well.”

“What did you end up getting her?”

“A notebook, with a bunch of sparkly glitter pens and…stickers and shit.”

“Did she like it?”

“Ohhh yeah. I’m the cool aunt. My other sister got her clothes.”

Greg winced. “Oh, never buy them clothes when they’re that age.”

“Seriously.”

“I did that once. Sharon pouted for a week. Never again.”

There was a flash of smile before Sally took another drink. “How is she?”

“She’s good. School is good, I think. She got into this…film programme. In LA."

She whistled. "Wow."

"No joke."

"That's got to be exciting though, yeah?"

He didn't want to get into how long she'd be there, and how that scared him half to death, so he simply replied, "Very. But between preparing for that and schoolwork she's busy as hell."

“Too busy to talk to you?”

“Too busy to talk for very long,” he said ruefully. “But that’s good. She should be busy. There’s a lot to do, that age. School and mates and figuring out how to live in a house with five other people without the place degenerating into too much of a mess.”

“Or, the place degenerates into a mess and no one cares enough to do anything about it.”

Greg grimaced. “Don’t tell me that.”

Sally laughed and clinked her glass against his. “Remind me never to tell you about the group house I lived in at uni.”

“Please, please, never tell me about your house at uni.”

She laughed harder and drank. Already, her glass was almost empty. Greg had to try and catch up: she always did this to him—drank faster, drank more—and while it kept him on his toes he resolved once again never to get into a drinking match with her. He strongly suspected he’d lose.

“Does Victoria ever go up and keep tabs on her?”

He shrugged. “She used to. But I don't really know. It’s not like I have either of them electronically tagged, now.”

“Sorry,” she said. “That was kind of a dumb question.”

“No, that’s okay. Maybe other couples can continue to talk once they’re divorced but…we just…don’t. I mean, there aren't custody arrangements to consider or anything.”

“True.”

“Every once in a while she asks about something I left in the garage, but that’s about it.”

“Is that…” She screwed up her face, then apparently decided to go forward with the question. “Is that okay?”

“Are you checking up on me?”

Her face came over all stubborn. “I guess I am.”

Greg huffed a quiet laugh and glanced at her over the rim of his pint. “Jesus, why do people keep doing that?”

“Who else has been asking?” She seemed…suspicious.

“Sharon.”

“Ah." She was let down, for some reason. "Well, maybe it’s because we give a shit about you. And you were a mess for a while there.”

“That was ages ago.”

“I’m not allowed to check in?”

He sighed and set his drink down. “I’m fine.” He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. The stress ball had somehow ended up in there again, so he pulled it out and started poking at it. The thing seemed to be everywhere recently. “I’m getting used to it.”

“The flat set up?”

“Mostly.”

“Took you long enough.” He squeezed the eyeball out at her and pulled a face. She laughed. “Well?”

“I didn’t know there was a race on.”

“I’m just saying. Everyone deserves a comfortable place to go back home to after work.”

Instead of his flat, Greg’s brain first flashed on walking in the door at Mycroft’s and being kissed within an inch of his life. He swallowed and steered it back to contemplating his own place. It wasn’t bad, per se, but it certainly wasn’t home yet.

Sally was peering at him. “So how’s your boyfriend?”

That snapped Greg immediately out of his reverie. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Maybe you should start listening.”

She waved that away as if it hadn’t been barbed. “Whatever.”

“I’m serious.”

“What are you doing there, then?”

“Are we really talking about this?”

“Yes.”

Greg took a very large drink of his bitter for fortification. “Nothing. I don't know. Nothing anymore. We're finished.” 

“Nothing.”

“It was only…blowing off some steam.” He jiggled the eyeball toy in his other hand.

“I bet it was.” She raised an eyebrow.

He rolled his eyes in the face of her disbelief. “Oh _honestly._ ”

“So you were just shagging, but not anymore.”

“Yes.”

“Nothing apart from that.”

“Correct.”

“Okay.” She took a sip of her drink.

“Move your things into Jason’s yet?” he asked, right when she had a mouthful. He was absurdly proud of his timing when she spluttered and only just barely managed to swallow before she spat it all over the table.

“Point taken,” she said after half a minute of hacking.

“Thought so.”

“I’ll leave off, then?”

“Seems like a good plan, yeah.” Greg bounced the toy once against the table in victory.

For the next hour, they drank and ate chips and avoided any mention of significant—or insignificant—others. Sally did tell him, however, about the hen night she’d been forced to attend when she was twenty-four during which they’d ended up renting bicycles and peddling drunkenly around Norwich with soft toys strapped to the handlebars. In trade, Greg told her about the time he and three friends had left giant stuffed bears in their seats during a maths class in lieu of actual attendance, and in return all their teacher had done was assign them extra homework about calculating jars of honey. He wished he could tell Mycroft that story, for some inexplicable reason. He thought he might appreciate it.

Soon enough, though, Sally stood and put on her jacket. “I’ve got to head out.”

“Yeah better go. Jason will be waiting.” She narrowed her eyes at him, but she didn’t say he wouldn’t. Greg blinked innocently at her over the remainder of his beer.

“Will I see you in those same clothes again tomorrow? Hungover and sad?” she said.

He snorted at her. “Go away now.”

She grinned. “'Night, Sir.”

Sally left him sitting at their table, nursing the dregs of his beer and listening to the crowd seriously getting into the end of the test match. He felt a strange sense of quietude settle into his chest for the first time in weeks. It was hollow, but comfortable nonetheless, and Greg wondered if this was meant to be the new definition of normal: alone and okay with it. He supposed it was better than the alternative.

In time Greg finished his beer but he didn't bother ordering another one. He slipped out into the night just as West Indies bowled a winner, so a rowdy mix of groaning and cheers followed him out the door until the pub door shut.

Craving a cigarette, Greg ducked into his car to wait out the sudden wave of loneliness that washed over him. It was ridiculous, he knew, having just felt fine about being alone in the bar, but for some reason being out and about in the still, dark world made him feel lonely in a way being alone in a lighted pub didn't.

Leaving that unexamined, he steered his car for home and wondered whether it was too late to ring his daughter.

* * *

His flat was still empty.

It didn’t make sense that it should strike him as both a blessing and a curse, but it did. It was notably lacking in burglars, yes, but it was further lacking in anyone-else-at-all. And Greg really didn’t want to be alone right now.

Even after he'd finished peering through every room and cupboard, under the bed, behind the shower curtain, he continued to pace the length and breadth of the place, looking. He picked up his phone to text Mycroft but in the last moment pulled up a conversation with his daughter instead.

`Is your flat a total wreck or only slightly a wreck?`

To avoid hypocrisy he began tidying up the clothes strewn across his bedroom floor while he waited for her to respond.

`Who’s asking?”`

`Police.`

She sent him a photo of an overflowing sink of dirty dishes.

`And if I were your mother?`

She sent him a photo of a small cactus garden on a bookshelf. It looked remarkably civilised.

`What does the flat look like ten feet to the right of that?”`

It was a picture of a stack of greasy pizza boxes and something that looked like a broken skateboard.

`I’m sorry I asked.`

`I thought you might be.`

`Don’t you ever clean?`

`Same as when we bathe. Once a month, whether we need it or not. We just flood the place, go swimming, and then wash everything out the door when we’re finished.`

`Mmm. Efficient.`

`Hey, it keeps the rats out. They leave every time like clockwork.`

`This conversation is making me more and more uncomfortable.`

`You started it.`

`I did, didn’t I?`

`What are you doing up so late?`

`It’s not that late.`

`The question stands.`

`I went to the pub with Donovan after work. You?`

`Homework. Putting off washing up after dinner.`

`You made dinner?`

`No, Jenny made spag bol. It’s my turn to clean.`

`So you’re saying someone else is going to have to do it tomorrow.`

`Har har. You’re the funniest.`

`That’s what I’m told.`

`Is this by people who are paid to be nice to you?`

`No one is paid to be nice to me. They’re paid to do their jobs.`

`Which is helped by being nice to you.`

`Why is everyone picking on me tonight?`

`What did Donovan say?`

_She’s teasing me about having a boyfriend,_ he thought but didn’t type. _Which is violently untrue and for multiple reasons._ He went to make himself a turkey sandwich and open a bottle of Hitachino; his buzz had faded long before he left the pub, and that was feeling unacceptable at the moment. Another beer was definitely required. He remained standing at the worktop to eat.

` She thinks I’m working too much`, he texted, which was a completely plausible lie.

`I’m certain that’s true.`

_What else do I have right now?_ The thought coalesced before he could wave it away like so much smoke. ` Someone has to do it.`

`Believe me, dad, I’ve heard all the justifications.`

`I've said before. They're not justifications. This is what I've always done.`

`I'm sorry, but that's always been the excuse. You go off and work, and mom and I just have to sit and worry because "this is what I do".`

`I thought it was better once I became a detective?`

`Not much, no.`

Fuck. This conversation was going south fast. He’d wanted comfort, but everything tonight seemed to turn up as criticism. He scrambled for an exit strategy lightning-quick. However, it was difficult to find something; obviously he couldn’t tell her about getting shot and didn’t want to tell her about the break-in, and those were the two most interesting things in his life at the moment. He dusted sandwich crumbs off his hands into the sink and drained his beer, then sat down in the spot occupied by Mycroft just last night as he flailed for another option. 

`BTW I’m thinking about getting a cat.` He was certainly not thinking about getting a cat.

`Why?`

`I think it would be fun.`

`You hated Stetson.`

Greg thought of the old, grey family pet who seemed to live only to claw off Greg’s arm, and pulled a face. `This wouldn’t be Stetson.` He leaned back against the arm of the sofa and thought he could smell Mycroft's cologne.

`Might be good for you to have something around to take care of you.`

Yeah. This conversation was definitely over. `You’re right, old men need sleep. Good night, sweetheart.`

`Sleep. Yes. Good night, Dad.`

It wasn’t his most graceful exit, and she probably saw through him like window glass, but he didn’t particularly care. He set a bath to run and poured himself some scotch. He brought both it and his book into the bath and sat on the edge of the tub to wait. 

Things were good, all told. Weren’t they? He had a job he was good at, a reasonably-comfortable flat, a solid relationship with a daughter (who in truth was a bit too smart for comfort), an ex he could at least speak to without it devolving into shouting and tears, and his car was in decent repair. On paper he was doing just fine. So why did he feel so…at a loss? 

It was the one-two-knockout punch of getting shot and having the flu, followed quickly by the intruder. It must be. It was throwing off Greg’s whole game and making his brain spin in circles. Perhaps after a glass of scotch and a hot bath and a book he could fall into bed and sleep, and maybe after all that tomorrow would seem less strange and discontented. 

It was worth a try, at any rate. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He likes you, sir. If you can’t see it you’re not the intelligent man I take you for.”
> 
> He blinked sideways at her, mouth twisted. “Buttering me up isn’t going to erase your little screed.”
> 
> “You’re not an idiot.”
> 
> “But you think I’m acting like one?”
> 
> “Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks as always go to my glorious betas Mazarin221B, BilliethePoet, and HiddenLacuna. The phrase "hot and cold running sex" is all down to the latter.

The new week dawned dull and listless and cold as fog. It continued that way for days, one after another, until Thursday when Sally knocked on the doorjamb to his office. She came in without waiting for him to acknowledge her.

“Hey, can I see the file on Gruber?” She peered closer at him. “Jesus.”

“What?”

“You’ve got some…” Sally gestured at her face as she plopped down into the seat across from him. “Those are some serious circles you’ve got going on, sir.”

“Yeah. I haven’t been sleeping well.” He scrubbed his face with one hand and fumbled for his coffee cup.

“I thought you were better?”

“No, not the flu.” The coffee tasted like the cardboard cup it was in. Greg wanted to spit it out, but that was impractical and was no way to get the necessary caffeine into his system. “Just tired.”

“If you’re messing with your sleep schedule reading that 'Blackbirds' book I lent you, I’ll take it back.”

He huffed a laugh and waved that away. “No, it’s not that. I finished that ages ago.”

“What’s the problem?” For several seconds he blinked at her. Even if he knew what the hell was going on—which he didn’t—he was hardly going to discuss it. She wasn’t his fucking _therapist_ , for christ’s sake. After a moment, she shrugged and pushed up from the chair. “Fine,” she said. “What’s that stuff Patel takes? Melatonin. I don’t know what it actually is, but maybe it’ll work on you.”

Greg poked at the coffee cup. It said _Greg_ on the side in the barista’s marker-pen scrawl. If he turned it away from himself just enough, he could pretend it said _Gregory_. He should just give them his full name next time. The illusion would be a comforting reminder.

“Sir?”

He looked up.

“Can I…can I just say this?” She looked extremely uncomfortable.

“Are you trying to say, ‘permission to speak freely?’ You know we’re not in the military, right?”

“Near enough sometimes,” she mumbled under her breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Damn right.”

“Look.” She pressed forward toward his desk again, an enemy line on the advance. “I know you’re trying to put me off the scent on this, but…”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you don’t want to talk about Holmes, but you look like shite.”

“He's not why I haven’t been sleeping, Donovan.”

“Bollocks. What is _wrong_ with you two?”

“Nothing’s wrong. We just—“

“I swear to god—You’re a smart guy. And Freak the Elder is no slouch. But with this? You two are the biggest idiots I know.”

Anger tightened his throat. “Donovan…”

“If you use that ‘just a shag’ line again, I swear to god—”

“He _was_ just—“

Sally buried her face in her hands and made a bovine noise of frustration. “Who are you trying to _convince_?” she said, her voice muffled.

“I’m not _trying_ to convince anyone. I’d be perfectly happy never to speak of this with you again, in fact.”

“This is not normal behaviour,” she said finally, and something in her tone drew him up short.

“What—“

“This is not normal behaviour for someone in his position.”

“What, in _the government_?” he said derisively.

“No, not… Well, yeah. Yes. You said he came over after the break-in.”

“Yes. He came over.”

“And you don’t see what I find odd about that?”

“We’re… Okay, fine. It was nice of him. Friendly. So we’re friends now.” Christ. Why was he letting her goad him into this discussion?

“Why you, sir?”

“What?”

“Why you, in particular? Why does he keep choosing you?”

“ _Pardon_ me?!”

“That man—” Sally pointed out the door, as if he were just waiting outside his office. “He could probably have anyone he wanted, if it was just for sex. He’s a power fuck. He’s not repugnant, although to be frank that hasn’t stopped people before. Boris has been married, what, twice? And _he_ looks like a used condom. Holmes is a powerful enough liaison, no matter what bullshit he bandies about.” She snorted. “‘Minor public servant’ my arse. He could have hot and cold running sex whenever he wants, but he chooses you. Repeatedly. A random DI at the Met. There’s something about you he wants. You specifically. So I’m telling you, sir. _This is not normal behaviour._ ”

Greg stared at her, speechless. It was the longest speech he’d ever had from her, not including the last time she flew off the handle at Sherlock touching his tongue to something at a crime scene. He croaked.

She appeared to be slightly chagrined that she’d let all that out, but the set of her shoulders was lower, and she appeared to have relaxed. “He likes you, sir. If you can’t see it you’re not the intelligent man I take you for.”

He blinked sideways at her, mouth twisted. “Buttering me up isn’t going to erase your little screed.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“But you think I’m acting like one?”

“Absolutely.”

Greg scrubbed both hands over his face. He was way the fuck too tired to think this through clearly. Although, to hear Sally tell it, he hadn’t been thinking this through clearly almost from the start. “So what are you suggesting I do?”

She snickered. “You were married for, what, over twenty years? How did you manage _that_ with these stunning communication skills of yours?”

“You’ve met Victoria.”

“She goaded you into talking.”

“Usually.”

“Ugh. Stop. Just…” Sally rolled her eyes and sank back down into the visitor’s chair. “Put on your big boy pants and go chat to him about this. Tell him you’d like to start dating. ‘Make a go of it’, or however you want to phrase this lunacy.”

“You’re not going to warn me off him?” He'd been scrubbing at a spot on his desk with a forefinger, but now he stopped to flick his gaze up and look at her from under his brow.

“I tried. Months ago. Didn’t take, did it?”

He sniffed a rueful laugh. “It wasn’t likely to.”

“Seriously, sir.” The tone of her voice made him lift his head properly to look at her face. It was solemn, sincere. “When you left to go see him, you looked _so happy_.”

“Of course I did. I was going to have sex.”

She snorted. “Fair enough. But—and I don’t know if I’m actually a good judge of this, but I think I am—you haven’t looked that happy in a really long time. A _really_ long time.”

Greg swallowed and prodded the recalcitrant spot on his desk. “So I should talk to him.”

“Please, for the love of god. The bags under your eyes are rivalling Prescott's.”

“What’s up with you slagging off politicians today?”

She let the question go by and simply quirked a smile. “Go home early, hm?”

“I thought you hated it when I left—“

“Oh, just _go_. You’re wearing me out.” She stood, grabbed the folder she’d come in for, and headed for the door.

“Donovan?” He wasn’t sure whether to thank her or be suspicious of her intentions.

“Go away, sir,” she said, waving a hand at him over her shoulder as she left. The room suddenly felt very silent.

Too silent. Too solitary. It was quiet in his office but loud out in the corridor, however it wasn’t the kind of loud you could get lost in, and as Greg thought about it he found that was exactly what he wanted. He took Sally’s advice and left, throwing on his coat as he thundered down the stairs.

Once out the door, he headed up the street to Starbucks. The plan was to get a better coffee and wander around for a while, maybe continue on to the park, but once he’d gotten his mocha the entrance to the tube was too tempting. He fumbled in his pocket for his oyster card.

There had been times in his life—plenty of times—when there was nothing for it but to people-watch when his mind was in a roil. It was soothing, somehow, letting the actions of a million anonymous people lull him into thinking about his own life. He’d had more than a few epiphanies this way, and if he ever needed his own brain to cough up advice, it was now. There was no one else he could talk to about this. No one.

He found a car that wasn’t packed, but busy enough, and sat himself in the middle of the crowd.

A mother and two young children got on at the first stop, bearing shopping bags with Japanese writing on them. Her daughter looked about four, and had pink Dora the Explorer boots on. She ate a biscuit while staring wide-eyed at Greg. He smiled at her, and she hid her face against her mum's coat. The-babe-in-arms had tufted black hair and a curious expression, and he barely stopped staring around while his mother wiped crumbs off his face.

Greg remembered those days. He remembered trying to navigate the Tube while Sharon fussed and whinged with colic, and trying to keep her from screeching as the train went through the tunnels. This infant was either just up from his nap or just more well-behaved on the whole, because he barely made a peep while his mother scrubbed his face clean and laid a fond kiss on his fuzzy head.

The tenderness reminded him strangely of Mycroft, which brought him round to the purpose of this train ride. He tried on the concept of dating him. He was promptly terrified.

For one, Greg wasn’t sure he was ready yet for another relationship. He’d been with Victoria for twenty-four years. How do you even start over again with someone new after that? What if he just started falling back into the same unhealthy patterns that ruined his marriage in the first place? He knew he wasn’t good at talking about difficult things. He had a tendency to lose himself in work. He was a bit self-centred, he'd been told, a bit thoughtless, and he held on to grudges a bit too long. Those things didn’t necessarily have to have led to her cheating, he knew, but he could recognise his part in it just as well as he could recognise hers. And he really didn’t want to go through that again.

But it mightn’t be the same at all. In some ways, Mycroft was so different from Victoria it made Greg’s head spin. And he and Mycroft had some things in common which he and Victoria hadn’t: They were _both_ busy. They were both _tremendously_ invested in their careers. Greg knew from experience how that sort of work ethic sat in a relationship and the damage it could cause. Would the chance of that be doubled between the two of them? If they already were frustrated by how difficult it was to align their schedules, wouldn’t it be even more frustrating the more…entangled they became? A relationship with Mycroft would be _so much more complicated_ than just occasionally sleeping together.

As a fifteen-year-old punk with a cast and crutches hobbled onto the car, Greg absently rubbed the nearly-healed-over cut on his arm. He considered further. If Mycroft were a worrier, the fact that Greg’s job could be dangerous would throw a spanner in the works. If Mycroft had jealousy issues, who knew what resources he would subvert to the cause? ( _That_ might be a horror the likes of which Greg had never known.) And if Mycroft were too much like Sherlock when it came to emotional relationships, well…John has repeatedly illustrated how difficult that could be.

But it wouldn’t be the same, would it? If the past few months had proved anything, it was that any sort of relationship with Mycroft would be unlike any Greg had ever had before.

Furthermore, this was likely putting the cart before the horse. He had no evidence that Mycroft would even _want_ to be officially dating someone. Surely Sally’s speech was just her opinion. 

The trouble was, the more he thought about it, the more he realised she was probably right.

There were two guys in their twenties tucked up in the back of the car. They looked as if they’d had a long night or a long day: the larger of them with a nascent afro had pushed himself sideways in the seat so he could lean against the window and stretch one long leg into the aisle, and the other guy with braids had curled up against his chest and fallen asleep. He was now drooling on his friend’s hoodie. Ignoring this, his friend idly played with his hair, and as Greg watched he too blinked himself into a light doze. The hand toying with the hair drooped as he dropped off.

With a flash of recollection, Greg could remember precisely how it felt to rest on Mycroft’s chest after the break in: warm, surrounded, supported. Comforted. Mycroft had seemed so pleased to help, too, and it had been such a relief to have something so easy and sweet after such a stressful night. Mycroft wouldn’t have come over if he hadn’t wanted to; Greg was sure of that, if he was sure of anything. That wasn’t his way.

Nor, really, was it his way to expend energy on someone without a good reason for it, and he’d gone through all the trouble of making Greg dinner and pudding. And he had seemed so _upset_ about the perceived flub with the Cherries Jubilee, too, which indicated he had some stake in this.

In the corner of his eye Greg caught a flash of movement. It was was a couple having a serious conversation: their hands were enfolded on her knee, and when she talked the tips of her fingers uncurled to emphasise her position. His eyes were trained solely on her, and his expression was worried, but even as the conversation seemed to get more dour he reached over and pushed her fringe from her forehead. It was sweet.

There were things Greg missed, not being in a relationship—the blend of intimacy, fondness, companionship, warmth, and support that made all the trouble worth it. And the more Greg considered their time together, the more he realised how amazing a relationship with Mycroft could be.

If he already was fond enough of Greg to work him into a painting, what incredible thing would he do if they were together? If he already thought enough of Greg to come over at 4am simply to bring him coffee and tell him stories after a stressful event, wouldn’t his support as a boyfriend be even more generous? If he already trusted Greg enough to stretch naked in front of him after sex, a nakedness that represented vulnerability and openness, softness, simplicity, how amazing could a more intimate vulnerability be? The thought of it stole Greg’s breath.

Waking up next to him. Showering with him. Shaving off his stubble to kiss the smooth patch. Having a lazy lie-in of a Sunday, making Mycroft laugh in bed, his smile—

 _His smile._ Greg thought of the way Mycroft's nose scrunched up, and how the lines at his mouth curved in. In smile Mycroft's face transformed completely, and just the memory made Greg's stomach warm.

Sally was right, and Greg was a complete and utter idiot.

Before he could chicken out Greg dug his mobile out of his pocket and thumbed open his text app. The last one from Mycroft was almost three weeks past. It was the sex video.

He pressed the phone to his forehead as if he could will his thoughts into the network and over to Mycroft without having to form them into words. He hadn’t the foggiest idea how to start this.

_Hi? Long time no see?_

_Would you consider being my boyfriend, maybe?_ Ugh. Not a chance. He was fifty years old, for christ’s sake. He wasn’t inviting him to the sock hop. He snorted and tried to focus. His thumbs poised over the keyboard.

 _I have a proposal for you?_ No, Greg wasn’t touching the ‘p’ word with a ten foot pole.

He relaxed back and scrubbed his hand through his hair. It felt incredibly good, and Greg suddenly realised just how much he’d missed being touched.

He leaned forward and typed.

`Can I talk to you?` He hit send before the fear could stop him.

The text wouldn’t go through.

Frustrated, Greg flew off the tube at the next stop and bolted out onto the pavement. He tried to send it again, staring down at his mobile with great concentration until the notification popped up that the send was successful. Then he finally looked up to see where the hell he was. Baker Street. It fucking figured.

He pointedly put his back to 221, aiming instead for Regent’s Park. He still had some coffee left, and he figured he could drink it and have a walk while he waited for a return text. A gaggle of women celebrating a hen night piled into a cab next to him as he crossed over Alsop. To a one they all wore bobble-y, flashing headbands and giddy expressions, and Greg envied them their simple happiness.

It wasn't until halfway around the lake that his mobile rang. With his system suddenly flooded with adrenaline Greg glanced around before answering it.

“Lestrade,” he said.

“ _Gregory_.” The quiet wariness in Mycroft’s voice made Greg’s chest tighten.

“I…” The trouble was, Greg still had no idea how to start this conversation. “Er. How are you?”

He heard Mycroft swallow. “Fine. I’m fine. And…you?”

“I’ve been better,” Greg said with a dry, humourless laugh. “But I’ve been worse.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

They both breathed into the phone. Greg heard the rustle of Mycroft’s clothing as he shifted. Greg found an open bench, sat, and watched a toddler try and feed some of his sandwich to his doll. The silence over the line became more awkward the longer it attenuated. Panic began to spin in Greg’s chest; he really had no idea what to say. He sighed, and they both spoke at the same time:

“Listen, I don’t know how to—“

“What was the—”

Greg stopped. “Sorry, what was that?“

“I apologise. Please continue.”

“No, please. You— You can go first.” Greg said.

“I insist.”

"No, you go."

"Gregory."

The sound of Mycroft saying his name tightened his stomach. “Erm. Okay. Well. I…” He made a tight fist and pushed his fingernails into his palm to centre himself with pain. “…Would like to talk with you. If you have some time.”

“I don’t have another meeting until 4pm.”

“So does that…er. Should I…?”

“Would you…mind…coming to my office?” The way he said it was so tentative, so unlike Mycroft’s usual smooth delivery, that Greg’s stomach clenched further.

“Sure.” He swallowed. “Yeah, no, that’d be…fine.”

“I’ll see you soon, then?”

Greg nodded into the phone then caught himself. “Er. Yes.” He was about to hang up, his mind turning over and over with which tube line to take to get there, with the pros and cons of caffeine overdose by buying another coffee, with a million possible ways their meeting could go. “Mycroft?”

“…Hm?”

He looked around again, just in case. He swallowed hard. “I plan to kiss you when I get there.” There. It was spoken aloud. That wave form had collapsed. He was now locked in to that option, and just that simple fact quieted the anxious swirl of potential in his head.

It was quiet at the other end for what seemed an eternity. “I think that would be fine.” Greg could picture Mycroft sitting in his office, brow furrowed, perhaps with his chair turned so he could face the wall and curled up to hide the conversation even from the empty room. At that moment Greg wanted to hold him so much it physically ached.

Greg took a deep breath and it shook. He steadied himself by grabbing onto the cool edge of the bench seat. “I’ll see you.”

“Until then, Gregory.”

* * *

Greg made it back to the tube station without so much as a nod to PC Granger, the random hot bicycle courier, or anyone else he passed on his way. Terror was sitting banked and hot in his chest but he pressed on past it, managing to manoeuvre himself down the Bakerloo line to Mycroft’s office without actually having a panic attack.

He'd accidentally left the last of his coffee on the train.

The woman sitting outside Mycroft’s office was the one Greg most often saw—Andrea, Audra, Anthea, Alice—and to his alarm instead of absently waving him through she actually looked up and gave him a hint of a smirk. “You can go on in,” she said, and Greg was afraid of how much she’d seen in his face.

Mycroft was standing in the middle of his office when Greg opened the door, as if he’d been pacing. His eyes were huge. Greg shut the door and stepped toward him, and Mycroft’s eyes seemed to get darker, as if his pupils were dilating as Greg watched. Mycroft’s chest rose and fell with his breath.

“I…I took the liberty of ordering us tea,” he said. There was the barest tremor to his voice, but his shoulders were back and his spine was straight.

“That was nice,” Greg said. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Mycroft reached out when Greg was close enough to touch, but he didn’t make contact. He let his arm fall to his side.

Greg stood his ground. He felt the compulsion pulling him toward Mycroft but fought it, the resistance tugging like an elastic band at his sternum. He almost leaned back to counter its pull. “I think we should… I’ve been thinking, and…” Mycroft had been staring at his mouth, but when he stopped speaking Mycroft dragged his gaze up to meet Greg’s. Mycroft’s eyes were wide and deep, and he looked, frankly, _terrified_. Greg couldn’t speak.

Mycroft did. “What were you thinking?”

Greg felt his face flushing. He huffed a dry laugh and looked over Mycroft’s shoulder at the far wall. “I can’t find the right words to say it.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Greg swallowed. “How do you say it at this point in life? I’m way too old for any terms I would have used when I was younger.”

Mycroft blinked and shook his head slightly. “I’m sorry, I don’t—“

“I want to be…'seeing you',” Greg said, and managed to coerce himself to look at him. “I want to be 'with you'.” He breathed another humourless laugh and looked down at the expensive wool rug. “I can’t associate the word ‘boyfriend’ with you without finding it hilariously inappropriate, but I want…that. I want that.”

He couldn’t look at the expression on Mycroft’s face. Mycroft stepped in closer. He pinched the zip of Greg’s coat between finger and thumb, toying with it, and tugged to seat its pull neatly down at the bottom. Then he started fiddling with the pocket. “You told me you were going to kiss me,” he said so quietly it was mostly a breath on Greg’s cheek.

“Are you going to kiss me back?” Greg asked back.

He felt Mycroft sniff a laugh and smooth down the pocket flap.

They leaned in at the same time. Mycroft’s mouth was soft and wet and sweet and gentle—far gentler, really, than it ever had been. Greg could somehow feel his circulatory system or his endocrine system or something blow wide, as if the touch of Mycroft’s mouth pushed his capillaries and neurones into overdrive so blood and hormones flooded his system. The kiss stayed slow until Greg felt the pressure increase to bursting, then he whined with the tremendous feel of it. And all at once the kiss exploded.

The catharsis of how hard and desperate it became couldn’t be understated. He tilted his head to deepen the kiss and pushed in forcefully. His teeth cut into the fleshy back of his lips. His heart thundered in his throat. His ribs couldn’t expand enough. He couldn’t draw in enough air. He couldn’t stop moaning. Mycroft’s arms tightened round him and Greg was bent backward with the force of Mycroft’s kiss, like a willow in a gale. He let himself be supported by Mycroft for a few moments before pressing his own emotion into it, and they staggered sideways a few steps, together.

Greg’s hands groped at the softness of Mycroft’s hips under the fine wool of his trousers, scratched at his back beneath his shirt, clutched violently at his ribs. Need swamped him: the need to grab him, to hold on, to bury himself it, to consume. He couldn’t kiss hard enough. He couldn’t get close enough. His heart beat frantically, loudly, the rush of blood in his ears as deafening as raindrops hitting the roof in a storm.

 _This, you idiot. These are feelings. You have_ feelings _for him._

They were unidentifiable, but they were there, pressing up in his throat. It was hard to swallow. Mycroft was trembling against him, shaking as he kissed, kissed, kissed, and Greg’s knees threatened to give out. He could taste the tang of iron in his mouth.

It didn’t feel romantic. It felt raw. They were kissing so hard, so desperately that it was shredding the inside of his mouth, but he couldn’t stop. It matched how much it hurt, deep in his chest. It didn’t feel tender. It felt wretched: a nauseating, painful amount of feeling. His stomach churned.

Ever since the beginning this affair had been emphatic. The forcefulness of the lust had been obvious from the first time they fucked up against the wall in this very office. But at some point in the last few months the want had transmuted to this violent, bloodying, sharp-bladed passion. Greg’s entire being felt mangled with it.

He whined—a broken noise, a noise of pain, and Mycroft broke the kiss. He pushed his forehead against Greg’s temple and writhed, whimpering with discomfort. To witness him so overcome with emotion was strange enough that Greg barely knew how to process it.

“And to think you were nervous,” he whispered, trying humour to soften the spell.

“I was not.” Like a cat Mycroft pressed his head harder against Greg’s, clearly knowing exactly what Greg was doing.

“Yes you were.”

Mycroft nuzzled his face in against Greg’s neck. Greg could feel the heat of it as he let out a shaky breath. Mycroft’s arms tightened like a vice around Greg’s shoulders. “The answer to your original query, whatever it was, is yes.”

“I had an original query?”

“You wanted to know if we could be together.”

Greg allowed himself a small chuckle. “Ah, yes. I’d guessed.”

“I just wanted to be clear.”

“Well, it’s appreciated.”

They still held each other, but their grip had eased. Greg pressed his face into Mycroft’s shoulder and breathed in his familiar smell and tongued at the abrasions on the inside of his mouth. It had been a really, really long time since he’d kissed anyone that hard. It felt…it felt like a miracle.

It was lucky mouths heal fast, because he already wanted to do it again.

“Are you thirsty? Hungry?” Mycroft asked him, his face still against Greg’s neck. He was shaking.

Greg shook his head a bit. “I’m not really feeling…” His stomach was too turned over for food. In fact, he almost felt ill with the effects of the emotion and the adrenaline.

“You should take a scone with you and eat it later.”

“I will.” Greg tried to kiss Mycroft’s neck without dislodging him. “Thanks.”

“There’s no reason to go hungry on my account.”

Greg squeezed him. Too many dangerous, soft thoughts whirled in his head. He tried to shove them down. “Why—Why, are you hungry?”

Mycroft shook his head. Several flyaway strands of hair tickled Greg’s noise, and he wrinkled it. He rubbed his face against the wool of Mycroft’s suit jacket to scratch the itch. “Well,” Mycroft said, appearing to reconsider. “Do you mean figuratively?”

Greg grinned against Mycroft’s shoulder. “Literally, you prat.”

Mycroft kissed his hair, a gentle, affectionate movement that created a lump Greg’s throat. “Only figuratively.”

It was strange, to stand there in Mycroft’s office without speech, without feeling the need to tear his clothes off, aroused but content to wrap his arms around Mycroft’s ribs and bury his face against him and just…be. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in that sort of space.

“I can’t say I’ll be any good at this,” Mycroft said. He voice was hushed with weight.

“Which part?”

“Any of it.”

“You’re good at the sex part.”

“Well.” Greg could hear Mycroft’s smile. “That’s gratifying.”

“Tell me about it.”

Mycroft squeezed Greg for a brief moment. “I’m being serious, Gregory.”

“So am I. Sex with you is _amazing_.”

“As nice as it is to hear you say it—“

“You were talking about other things.”

“Yes.” Mycroft cleared his throat. It was loud in Greg’s ear. “I feel like we should enter into this with both eyes open.”

“You want to offer me a disclaimer.”

“Not a disclaimer, necessarily, but a…state of play.”

“A state of play.”

“My role models for this were not exemplary.”

“And mine were?”

“You have a quarter-century more experience than I do, and that’s only including your marriage.”

“I feel extremely old now.”

“Hush.” Mycroft softened it with a kiss to Greg’s hair. “I’m talking.”

“You’re making excuses.”

Mycroft turned Greg’s face up to look into it. “Are you suggesting you don’t have any reservations at all?”

As Greg stared at the angle of Mycroft’s raised eyebrow from six inches away, he tried to determine how to describe the complexity of thought he’d built up around this subject only over the last hour. “No. I mean, of course I do.” He fumbled for a succinct way to put it. “The ink’s barely dry on the divorce papers.”

“And that’s only one of the factors I consider when I say I have concerns.”

“It sounds like we should have a policy meeting.”

“You joke, but I’m not certain something like that would be…out of place.”

“You sexy thing.”

Mycroft pulled out of Greg’s arms and walked to the window. He combed his fingers through his hair frustratedly, the line of his arousal clearly distending the fine wool of his trousers. He didn’t seem to be shy about that either, which Greg found painfully attractive. It obviously wasn’t the appropriate time to act on it, however, so Greg swallowed the impulse down and massaged the back of his neck instead.

After a few moments of staring out at the grey, autumnal sky lowering upon London, Mycroft blew out a steadying breath and spoke. “There are a number of things about which I have concerns.”

“The state of our interactions with North Korea?” Mycroft turned to give him a bemused look. Greg’s mouth quirked, and he had a tough time maintaining eye contact. “Sorry.”

Mycroft turned back to look out the window. “I’ve been thinking about this for quite a while now. I’m concerned about how recent your divorce is, and I don’t want to feel that you entered into this too soon. I don’t want—“ He cleared his throat. “Also, I’m concerned that our sets of experiences are so very different. I have declined to become romantically involved with others for so long that it almost could be said never to have happened at all. Whereas you… You have been active for, what, 35 years running? That cannot help but set expectations on both sides which may not be met, and that disconnect can cause—“

“Oh my god, stop.”

“These are reasonable fears,” Mycroft said, turning back around to look at Greg.

“Maybe, but. It still feels like borrowing trouble.”

“I told you. I’ve been thinking of this a long time. The likelihood of trouble is fairly high.”

“Okay, but we’ll solve it when we get there. We don’t need to… We can’t just say, ‘well, these are the problems we’re going to have, so we might as well not even do it at all.’ That’s ridiculous.”

“I never said we shouldn’t do it at all, Gregory.”

“Wasn’t that what you were just doing?”

“No.” Mycroft stepped up closer to him. “I was just listing things we should be aware of.”

“So you still want to… God, I need to find the right words for this.”

“‘Dating’ seems perfectly reasonable,” Mycroft said, and down at Greg’s side Mycroft slipped his fingers around Greg’s hand before bringing it up to his mouth. He pressed Greg’s knuckles to his lips.

“We could be, er, ‘seeing each other’.”

“That would would work, too.”

Mycroft kept running his mouth along the delicate skin of Greg’s knuckles and it was incredibly distracting. “Er,” Greg said. “Seems a bit…light, though.” His heart began to pound.

“Light?”

“Not serious enough.”

“You want it to be clearer that we’re serious about each other?”

“Well.” Greg swallowed. His throat felt so dry. “Aren’t we?”

Mycroft furrowed his brow and let their hands fall gently to their sides. He looked into Greg’s eyes as if searching for something. After a long moment he said, so quietly it was almost just breath, “Very much so.”

“Okay,” Greg said, and suddenly it was tremendously difficult not to just wrap his arms around Mycroft and pull him into a hug. Then he realised he _could_ , so he did. Mycroft’s arms were warm and soothing around his shoulders as he inhaled slowly and, as he exhaled, he sunk into Greg’s body. “You’ve been thinking about this?”

“Yes.”

“For quite a while.”

He felt Mycroft nod. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What could I have said? Even you have been having trouble with it, and you know what you’re doing. This is not a language I’ve studied, remember.”

“Yes, because I’m a paragon of romantic understanding.”

“I deferred to your greater experience.”

“You should have _said_ something.”

“I thought my feelings were clear.”

“Not to me. I’m not very bright, remember?”

“Untrue.” Mycroft’s arms tightened briefly. “I wouldn’t be standing here if you weren’t.”

“You mean _I_ wouldn’t be standing here if I weren’t.” Greg looked around at Mycroft’s office.

Mycroft sniffed a quiet laugh. “Indeed.”

Greg held on to Mycroft for a few more comfortable seconds, idly poking his tongue at the abrasions on the inside of his mouth. Then he extricated himself, and Mycroft let him go. “I still wish you’d said something.”

“Would you have said yes?”

Greg considered it. Would knowing that Mycroft wanted their relationship to be more serious have made Greg realise what he wanted too? “I think so, yeah.”

“Well.” Mycroft seemed genuinely, quietly surprised. “I misjudged. Perhaps I’m the one who isn’t very bright.”

“I think you have an excuse.”

“Do I?”

“You were busy learning other languages, yeah?”

A smile played at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “Indeed.”

“We’ll still need to work out how not to get so caught up in things that…well. You know. I can’t undo what happened with Carfax.”

“I have no doubt that as time goes on, and our…ardour steadies, we’ll have less trouble focussing on work.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“I’m not sure I have the experience to place any value on it whatsoever.”

“I do.”

“You think it will be a problem?”

“I think we won’t see each other for days at a time because of work, and after a while we won’t care about that, and it’ll all—“

“Now who’s borrowing trouble?” There was a gentle smile touching the corner of Mycroft’s mouth.

Greg scrubbed his face with his hand. “I don’t know how to do this well.”

“Nor do I. But you’re correct: between us we can likely puzzle it out.”

“We don’t have a very good track record with…er.”

“Communication?”

“See?”

“You don’t appear to have much difficult talking about things once the topic has already arisen.”

“Yes I do. It's physically impossible for me to be serious about them.”

“You are right now.”

“This doesn’t count.” Even as he said it, Greg realised that didn’t make any sense whatsoever.

“Gregory.”

“Just…” He started pacing back and forth across Mycroft’s office, from the door to the sofa and back. He stopped. And then he just _said it._ “Mycroft. This scares the shit out of me.”

He was still, tall, and serious-eyed. “I know.”

“Twenty-four years. I mean, you and Sally both think I’m supposed to know what the fuck I’m doing, but if you’d just look at my _track record_ you’d see how much I—“

“I can guarantee you this will be different.”

Greg deflated, the momentary burst of flight-or-flight leaving him. “I know.”

“I know you know.”

“I just…”

“May I kiss you, please?”

Greg looked at him in surprise. “Er. Yes. …Yes. Of course.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft stepped close, took Greg’s face in both hands, and kissed him gently. “We are different people.”

“I’m not very…”

“Your patterns with your wife were set when you were very young. As it happens, the last time I tried a relationship I was not very much younger than you were then. We are both very, very different people than we used to be. Correct?”

Greg thought back to nights chain smoking outside of clubs, punk rock and plaid. “Yes.”

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg’s shoulders and gathered him in. His breath on Greg’s neck was humid and comforting. “This is my admission: you were right. I am nervous.”

Greg pressed his smile into Mycroft’s hair. “I know.”

"I have become…remarkably accustomed to having you in my life."

"You've just gotten used to the available sex, now."

Mycroft pulled back just enough that he could look into Greg's face. "No, Gregory." He didn't stop looking, though, and Greg averted his face under the scrutiny. Mycroft kept looking. Greg felt his gaze burning a hole in the side of his head, and the shaky exhalation of Mycroft's sigh just before he pressed a series of soft, emphatic kisses down to his cheekbone from his temple.

Greg turned his head and caught Mycroft's mouth with his own. It had only been intended as something gentle, something affirming, something to keep Mycroft from staring at him, but it immediately became searing and proprietary. Hormones surged and his stomach clenched, and Mycroft bit clumsily at Greg's mouth.

They staggered over to the wall and Greg used it as a prop to hold him up before his knees gave out completely. _Passion,_ he thought. _It's not simply lust. This is passion._ He wondered how he ever could have been so stupid.

His toes curled in his shoes.

Mycroft smeared kisses along Greg's jaw and tucked his face into his neck. Greg closed his arms vice-like around Mycroft's narrow ribs. They both gasped for breath. Greg couldn't swallow past the emotion in his throat. Mycroft's hands grabbed at the back of Greg's shirt and clutched him closer.

Too much. It was all too much: it was as if by acknowledging the relationship the floodgates had opened, and now Greg's arms were becoming fatigued with how hard he was fighting not to get washed away by the waves of emotion. He reaffirmed his grip. 

"Can you—" Greg's voice caught in his throat as Mycroft, shaking, sucked a kiss into his neck without any regard for whether he left a mark or not. "Can you get away for a while?" He wanted to do this in one of their homes. In one of their beds. Naked and warm and _true._

Mycroft's attention to Greg's neck stopped. He sighed and shook his head. His hair ticked Greg's nose again. "I'm afraid my meeting is rather…mandatory."

“Ah.” Disappointment clutched at Greg’s chest. He didn't know what to do. He pressed his face against Mycroft's shoulder, hard. “When can I—"

"It should be over by half-past six."

"Can I see you then?"

" _Please._ " The quiet need in Mycroft's voice was gratifying. Greg shivered and pulled closer. He absolutely did not want to let go.

Eventually Mycroft began stroking his palms up and down Greg's back, and it seemed a preparatory gesture, a prelude to disengaging from Greg’s embrace. Greg locked his hands at Mycroft's lower back and leaned into him with a sigh. He tried to calm himself.

"Come over to mine after you're finished?" Greg said.

"Yes."

"I'll make you supper."

"You'll make _me_ supper?"

"I am capable."

"I don't doubt it."

"I just don't generally _like_ to cook."

"Please don't feel you have to on my account. I could order something—"

"No," Greg cut in. He pulled back to slide his hands on the side of Mycroft's face. He brushed Mycroft's mouth with a thumb. "I'd like to."

Mycroft looked softly into Greg's eyes and blinked. His lips closed around the pad of a thumb for a moment, which sent a thrill down to Greg's groin and made him shiver. "I'd be honored."

There was a vulnerability about about the way he said it that made Greg's stomach flutter, and he found himself burying his face against Mycroft's neck and trying to breathe. God. _When did this happen?_

Greg was torn between trying to ride out this strange swirl of emotion and simply turning tail and fleeing to the shops for mental space and groceries. Mycroft made the decision for him, giving him a last squeeze and slipping away with a hard kiss to Greg's temple.

"I'm really sorry to do this. Truly. But I have to…"

"You need to get back to work."

"I do."

Mycroft cheeks were high in colour as he stared out the window. As Greg looked on he pushed his fingers through his hair, mussing it, then finger-combed it back into place. He appeared to be resettling himself. For some reason, it was pleasant to watch. Mycroft scrubbed his hands over his face and blew out a breath.

Greg felt a tender warmth flare deep in his gut, and he spun off to sit on the sofa for a moment. He propped his elbows on his knees and leaned over to let his head dangle. The muscles in his neck stretched comfortingly.

“Yes. I need to leave."

Mycroft didn't respond. He didn't even move, and neither did Greg.

"Okay. Here I go." Greg enjoyed Mycroft's quiet presence for a few more seconds before bracing himself on the sofa's edge and pushing himself up with a quiet groan. "Is there danger in giving you a kiss goodbye?"

At last Mycroft turned from the window. He gave Greg a soft smile. "Perhaps a little."

"I might risk it anyway."

Mycroft's smile grew warmer. "I would not blame you if you did."

Greg grinned. He crossed the room to take Mycroft's face in his hands and plant a calculated kiss on him, a kiss designed to be forceful and fond and easy enough to break away from. Mycroft smoothed his hands once down Greg's upper arms but let him step back.

"Would you mind terribly if I brought something to drink tonight?" Mycroft asked.

Greg had no idea. He spluttered for a moment, then shrugged. "Er, sure."

A corner of Mycroft's mouth quirked, and this time he was the one to step in and take Greg's face in his hands for a kiss. This one lingered, and it caused a flutter of nervousness low in Greg's belly. "I'll bring wine," Mycroft said, his lips brushing Greg's.

There was a tightness in Greg's chest that increased at the feeling of Mycroft's mouth. "What kind?"

"Is there a kind you'd prefer?"

"Er. A red?"

"I'll bring you a rich, dark, red."

Something in the way Mycroft said it made Greg want desperately to jump his bones right then and there. He sucked in a steadying breath and took a few steps backward. "Th-that sounds good."

Mycroft's chest rose and fell as if he too had to take a breath to steady himself. "I will see you at seven o'clock, then."

Greg tried to tear his gaze away from Mycroft's and failed. "Yes."

They stared. "Have a good afternoon," Mycroft eventually said.

"You too." Greg backed away to the door while looking into Mycroft's eyes.

"Goodbye, Gregory."

Greg put his hand on the doorknob, and with a great force of will, opened it. "Bye."

The last thing Greg saw before he stepped out of the room was the intense, fond look on Mycroft's face, and then he'd shut the door behind him. There was no one at the desk; Angela, Alison, Andie, Aubry, whatever her name, she was missing, and Greg felt a tremendous flood of relief that he didn't have to suffer under the weight of her knowing gaze as he left the building. He made it out to the street without seeing anyone else, already ignoring the clutch of nervousness in his stomach, already casting for plans as to what he could make for supper.

* * *

He had to take the Tube back, and so spent most of the ride with his face in his hands trying to centre himself. He felt out of sorts and vaguely ill, the adrenaline crash leaving him shaky, and the nerves about tonight's date twisted his stomach. Luckily the Tesco on the way home was busy with the post-work shopping contingent, and it left to undergo his own private drama as around him people made food selections with enviable certainty. Greg squeezed past a display of sprouts to stand, shell-shocked, in the middle of the produce.

Questions swirled through his mind: what kind of supper would Mycroft like best? What would _he_ choose for a romantic evening? What would pair with the wine he was bringing? Was he allergic to anything? Were there things he detested? Greg swore after so many meals together he should at least know the answers to a few of those, but for some reason his brain was having trouble focussing.

There were so many goddamn things he didn't know about Mycroft. They'd spent the majority of their time in bed (or on the floor, in the car, against the wall…), where their mouths were used for everything other than talking. He'd resolved to do this, and as such he would follow through, but there was a stubborn grain of reservation about entering into a relationship with someone he felt he barely knew.

A thread of fear clutched at his stomach. This was real. Greg suddenly felt terribly, horrifyingly his age in a way he seldom allowed of himself. There were days he still felt like a thirty-year-old, bounding into work and ready to deal with all its delicious bullshit. And recently there were days he felt even younger, swept up with the invigorating maelstrom of desire. But standing there in the shop and trying to suss out what to cook for Mycroft made him feel ancient and rigid, ossified with the habits of years past.

He had no idea what to make. And the weight of the night was too ponderous to brush off.

Not curry. Nothing spicy. He didn't feel up for following a complicated recipe, either, so that was out. He needed something easy and delicious and…perhaps impressive? Not too simple? And he really wanted a food familiar enough that it could be a comfort, because the longer Greg thought about it the more nervous he became.

As he prodded some wilted French beans a thought occurred to him: the sense of the world laid out before him and his potential partner wasn't here this time, like it had been when he and Victoria were young. He and Mycroft were at a later point in life, and the years before them seemed smaller. The things they’d have to work out would be different to the things he'd had to contend with when he and Victoria were ripe as peaches, smooth and naive. There would be aches from the persistent tread of age instead of those won in the service of chasing pleasure; responsibility to coworkers and family instead of a choice which holiday to fly off to at a moment's notice; and one day, hopefully in the far future, a discussion of retirement instead of children—

 _Oh god._ He really was going to have to tell Sharon.

Suddenly he had trouble breathing. He leaned against the refrigerator and sucked in air through a throat gone thick and tight. Embarrassed, he waved off an older lady who was giving him a look of concern.

 _She probably thinks I'm having a heart attack,_ he thought, _Some grey-haired guy with breathing troubles, ashen in the middle of the fruit and veg._ He swallowed hard and fought off the panic.

 _Having a panic attack in the shop over starting something new._ Starting something with a man who Greg could only assume was a high-ranking member of the intelligence community or the government or a combination of the two. Starting something with a man who was, when it came down to it, almost a novice at love affairs. Starting something so soon after a quarter-century-long marriage. Starting something that—if Greg's gut was anything to go by, and historically it was—already was showing signs of being desperately serious.

It would be easier if Mycroft were here. He could bury his face against Mycroft's neck, and breathe easily, and hold on as the storm of emotions buffeted him.

Which, really, was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? Mycroft may have been the cause of this small attack of panic, but if Mycroft were there he would soothe Greg so much that the panic would drop away. No matter how few facts about Mycroft he knew, still Greg found Mycroft to be a steady and comforting presence in his life. He wanted more of it.

(He wanted all of it.)

The thought of Mycroft—him in total, his touch and his calming voice and the way the nosy things he did seemed not creepy but supportive in the pink and flattering light of Greg's affection—firmed Greg's resolve, and he pushed himself off to go hunt down the ingredients for a nice, safe, chicken marsala.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greg picked up his own wine glass once everything was ready and waited for Mycroft to get the hint. When he did Greg hoisted his glass in his direction. His stomach flipped. This time he didn’t censor himself—he came right out and said it. "To us."_
> 
> _He felt a moment of fear when Mycroft's face instantly froze into an expressionless mask, but then it melted, eased, and the smile Mycroft gave him wrapped around them both like a blanket._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks go to my generous betas Mazarin221B, BilliethePoet, and HiddenLacuna. Good betas help you with the nuts and bolts of your writing. Great betas help you with the big picture. I have amazing betas.

About a quarter to seven, Greg was turning off the heat under the risotto when there was a knock at the door. His heart jumped into his throat.

"I apologise for being a bit early," Mycroft said when Greg opened the door.

Greg blinked at him. "Oh."

"Is this a problem? Should I—"

"No," Greg interrupted. "No, sorry. Come in, no, it's fine."

"It smells very nice in here," Mycroft said. Greg took the bottle of wine from him and helped him out of his coat, just a bit glad Mycroft hadn’t waited until seven. It kept Greg from having too much time to fret. It kept him from having to wonder if Mycroft was going to cancel in favour of work.

"Er, thanks. I hope it doesn't just…er." Mycroft's coat hung up, he turned around and found him well within Greg's usual boundary of personal space. The physical closeness set every nerve ending on high alert. "I hope it doesn't just smell good."

"I’m sure it tastes delicious too.” Mycroft's mouth was too close for him to say those words and not affect Greg's blood flow. A pulse of arousal thrilled him before he stepped backward to lead Mycroft further into the flat.

"I'm. Er." Greg swallowed down a flood of nerves. "I've made chicken marsala. I know you said you were bringing a red, but—"

"That's absolutely fine," Mycroft said. He looked round, surveying Greg's kitchen as if he hadn't seen it before. "Don't trouble yourself about it. Please."

Greg studied him out of the corner of his eye, marvelling at Mycroft's presence, feeling once again the nervousness jittering in his fingertips. He stirred the sauce, smoothing out the non-existent clumps in a flustered attempt to give himself something to do with his hands. "Erm. Would you like a glass now?"

Mycroft gave him a slow smile. It settled warmly in Greg's chest. "If you'll have one too."

It sounded like a spectacular idea. "Sure. Yes. Great. I'll just—" He stirred the sauce once more before abandoning it for the stemware. He set two glasses down on the kitchen island next to Mycroft's elbow, catching a whiff of Mycroft's aftershave before rummaging in the drawer for the corkscrew.

"Might I do the honours?" Mycroft said.

Greg detangled the corkscrew from the other devices in the drawer then handed it over. Mycroft's fingers dragged against his palm, and Greg had to sock down a shiver. Even so, an echo of the touch tingled all the way up his arm as he retreated to stir the risotto.

He could feel Mycroft's attention at his back and could hear the sounds of a bottle being uncorked and two glasses being poured. Greg pretended to be fixing something with the sauce just to have a fragile moment to himself. Then he turned.

Mycroft handed him a glass, and he swirled the wine round. He stared into the sloshing whirlpool. “What shall we toast to?” Mycroft said. A few vague possibilities floated across Greg’s consciousness, but once Mycroft raised his glass any idea of a toast evaporated. He looked at the quiet expectation in Mycroft's eyes and waited for an idea to manifest from the aether.

All he could think to say was, "to us," and that was so on-the-nose it was absolutely terrifying.

Luckily, Mycroft saved him. “À votre santé," he said, clinking his glass against Greg's. A flood of nerves and relief pulsed through him but he swallowed it down along with the wine.

"This is—" Greg cleared his throat. "This is a really nice."

"I'd thought so," Mycroft said, holding his gaze.

"Full."

"Yes."

"Dark."

"Quite."

They stared for a moment. "I, er. I need to stir the meal," Greg said, turning away and taking refuge from Mycroft's eyes in the simple act of pushing the chicken around in the pan.

"I look forward to it," Mycroft said from his spot at the island.

Greg turned off the heat under the chicken. "I hope it lives up to your expectations."

"You know what they say," said Mycroft, and suddenly he was at Greg's side, leaning one hip against the worktop. "Hunger makes the best sauce."

Heart beating so hard he felt it in his throat, Greg swallowed. "I'm afraid the didn't have the best marsala wine." To his ears, his voice sounded rough.

"It will do." With one hand, Mycroft scooped up Greg by the back of the head and pulled him into a kiss. Immediately, Greg's blood began to rush. He tilted his head and opened his mouth. Mycroft's breath was harsh through his nose. The spoon in Greg's hand clattered back into the pan and he reached up to grab Mycroft's shoulder then smooth his palm down the outside of his arm, ending when their hands brushed and their fingers interlocked. Greg felt the electric thrill up his arm and in his gut and down into the very base of him.

Mycroft groaned quietly and shifted them so Greg's back was up against the worktop and his head rattled the cupboard door. He rained kisses like fire down Greg's neck.

“I thought…" Greg moaned. "I thought you were hungry."

Mycroft barely lifted his lips from Greg’s skin to speak. “Very.”

It made Greg shiver. “You don't want to wait?”

“Please tell me you don’t.” Mycroft had already started unbuttoning Greg’s shirt.

“…No.” It was true. As much as Greg felt a sense of obligation to his cooking to eat it while it was still hot, he didn't think he could focus on food even if he'd wanted to. His stomach was upside-down with arousal.

They snogged, intertwining against the worktop for a few moments before a spatula and a fork scattered to the floor. Mycroft broke the kiss to press his forehead to Greg’s neck and inhale. “I just…I _missed_ you.” He hands clutched at Greg’s waist. “God, I missed you.”

His blood running cinnamon-hot through his veins, Greg wrapped a shaky arm around Mycroft’s ribs and buried the other in his hair. It wasn’t enough, so he squeezed. _I missed you, too._ “You saw me.”

“That’s not the same at all.”

No, it wasn’t. The comfort after the break-in was nice, but Greg missed this most: passion in Mycroft’s touch, the need that ran through his body, the overwhelming rush of wanting and being wanted so desperately it was almost too difficult to control it. It made him feel twenty—caught in the throes of lust with someone amazing, and convinced the entire world circled around one fuck and the next fuck and the next. It was invigorating. Greg tightened his arms around Mycroft and tried to breathe through the cloying clutch of desire.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Mycroft whispered.

“Of course you do. We’ve been doing this for months. I’ve told you you’re good at it.”

Mycroft pulled back to scan Greg’s face, then took his head in both hands to kiss him deeply. A fine tremor ran through him.

“Come on,” Greg murmured. “Let’s go to bed.”

* * *

The made it only halfway into the room before Greg became overwhelmed by the sensation of relief. Mycroft was _here_ , finally, and the past fortnight had seemed so much longer than the two weeks Mycroft had been gone only a month ago. He wrapped himself around Mycroft as much as possible while still standing and poured his relief into a kiss. Mycroft responded with a moan, and he took Greg by the upper arms and steered him against the door. Greg hissed; while nearly healed, the vice-like grip over the bullet wound caused a phantom, deeply-wrong twinge which didn't hurt, not precisely, but it still caused Greg’s hindbrain to be alarmed.

Greg pulled his arm out of Mycroft’s grip and dared to look at his face. His eyes were wide, and he looked like nothing so much as a small boy who had broken another’s toy and didn’t know what to do. “Sorry,” Greg said nonsensically.

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s adam’s apple bobbed. “What is wrong with your arm?” It was less a question than a demand for information.

“I thought you knew.” Greg’s gaze skittered all over Mycroft’s face, searching for some sign of remembrance. “Don’t you know everything? You were just there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I got shot. By Jordan. Sort of.”

Mycroft’s wide eyes didn’t get any wider, but something in the muscles around them betrayed a welter of emotion nonetheless. “Explain.”

“It’s really nothing. Really. We’d caught him up eventually, setting his sniper station on the roof of a building near the place you’d found us. Sherlock—“ Greg stopped and peered at him. “Why _don’t_ you know this?” This was exactly the sort of thing Mycroft usually knew. In fact, he’d showed up to give them warning that Jordan had escaped surveillance, so Greg _knew_ the case had been monitored.

Mycroft’s face was transformed by the most curious expression, and it turned slightly pink. “I don’t.”

“Obviously. _Why_ don’t you know?”

“If something with lasting damage or consequences had happened, I would have been told. So you mustn’t have been very badly hurt.” Mycroft sounded is if he were partly telling Greg and partly telling himself.

“Mycroft, why—“

“I’d asked them not to.”

Greg didn’t understand. “You’d asked them not to what?”

“Except for certain circumstances, I’d asked them not to tell me about anything that revolved around you.” No question about it: Mycroft’s ears were definitely pink now. It was kind of adorable—or would have been, if Greg hadn’t been more interested in figuring out what the fuck he was talking about.

“Wait. You were…what, in some sort of information quarantine?”

Mycroft looked over at Greg’s wardrobe.

It sort of fell together in Greg’s head, the way it did at the end of a case. They’d had that charged conversation in the alley, and Mycroft had likely been so rattled by it, by seeing Greg, by…something, that he’d had his underlings continue to monitor the situation but tell Mycroft nothing further. Perhaps if Jordan had gotten away he was to be told, but otherwise Mycroft had found it too discomforting to know what Greg was up to, so he’d isolated himself from that sort of information. It was a testament to how much their non-row had bothered him that _Mycroft_ had given up access to information just to avoid more discomfort. Something warm spun in Greg’s chest.

He slid a palm to the far side of Mycroft’s face and reeled him in to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. “I’m fine now, by the way.”

“Clearly.” The word sounded just a little bit too much like Sherlock for Greg not to laugh. When he chuckled, his lips caught on the slight stubble of Mycroft’s cheek. Something about it—the sound, the feeling of Greg's mouth—made Mycroft’s spine go pliant, and he melted against him. Greg wrapped his arms round Mycroft's ribs in return and nuzzled kisses into his neck and jaw.

After a moment Mycroft responded, pulling the tails of Greg’s shirt and vest out of his trousers and sliding his hands up underneath them to lie flat and soothing against the skin of Greg’s back. Mycroft made a small noise in his throat.

Greg would have been happy to stand there all day, perhaps, holding on to each other, breathing, feeling the pounding of Mycroft’s heart echo the one in his own chest, but he found himself saying, “It was basically a graze. Almost a through and through. Good thing I’ve gotten so fat in my old age or it would have hit muscle.”

The tension in Mycroft’s spine was immediately back. “Stop now,” he said, and ensured Greg’s peace by taking his mouth in a deep, soul-clutching kiss. It felt as if he were trying to tell Greg something, but the message was muddled. Greg felt desperation, but it wasn’t clear whether that desperation were Mycroft’s or his own.

“Clothes,” he growled. He began to unfasten Mycroft’s belt, his fingers fumbling in their haste, but Mycroft stilled him with one hand. Greg looked into his face, confused.

Instead of answering, Mycroft just leaned in and laid a series of soft, languorous kisses down Greg’s neck, one after the other. There was no haste in it; it was just a slow line of sensation, Mycroft’s mouth warm and wet and gentle as feathers. Greg let his head fall back on his neck and sucked in a stuttering breath. He felt Mycroft unbuttoning his shirt, flicking it open bit by bit to expose the vest underneath while he applied his mouth to Greg’s neck.

“Taking your time?” Greg murmured, not wanting to shock the moment with too much speech.

Instead of answering, Mycroft pushed Greg’s shirt off his shoulders and to the floor. He detached from Greg’s neck to examine the wound, his fingers hovering over the weal carved pink into the outside of his arm. Mycroft’s grip had made it a little angry; while the outer layers had long since healed over, the inner layers were taking their sweet time. No doubt Greg wasn’t treating it as carefully as he probably should. It had only been a fortnight, after all. And Greg wasn’t always a patient person.

Greg craned his neck to look at Mycroft’s face. It was closed down, expressionless as his eyes studied the evidence before him, but as lifted his fingertips to trace them softly along the scar their tremor was perfectly evident. Greg’s stomach fluttered, and he swallowed hard.

The movement drew Mycroft’s eyes up to Greg’s. They were so dark, so _deep_ , and Greg felt ensnared. He couldn’t break their gaze even as Mycroft stood up straight again, shovelled his hands under the hem of Greg’s vest, and pushed it up, up off his torso and stripped it over his head. The feel of Mycroft’s hands over so much bare skin made Greg’s bones feel unctuous, hot, soft like melting wax. Mycroft let the shirt fall to the floor and stepped in close to capture Greg’s face in both hands. Greg shuddered as Mycroft kissed him, his nervous system almost overloading with sensuality. Each time Greg tried to increase the pace of it Mycroft applied the brakes, keeping it slow and controlled, tempered. He’d try to kiss faster and Mycroft would ignore it, then Greg would press harder, but no matter what Mycroft wouldn’t be bullied. Greg felt unsettled; the kiss was causing an inexorable tide of emotion to rise in his gut, filling him, making him feel desperate and needy and so, so uncomfortable. He clawed at Mycroft’s back through his shirt as it built to an unbearable pitch. It was hard to breathe. It was hard to think. The feeling in Greg’s gut wound tighter and tighter until it reached a breaking point, and he snapped. He heard himself making a ridiculous noise into Mycroft’s mouth and, frantic, shoved him away.

Mycroft fell onto Greg’s mattress with a bounce that scraped the whole bed an inch across the floor. Mycroft’s eyes were huge. His mouth was slack as he caught his breath. Greg was mesmerised by the rise and fall of his chest for only a few seconds before he pounced on him, tearing at his clothes, biting at his neck.

“Oh god, Gregory,” Mycroft gasped. His hands came up and fisted in Greg’s hair. He lifted a leg and wrapped it around Greg’s torso, then arched up against his body. The solidness of his erection was too tempting to ignore, so Greg abandoned Mycroft’s shirt buttons to slide down and press his face against the hard front of Mycroft’s trousers. Mycroft made a strangled sound.

Greg immediately opened Mycroft’s flies, fished out his cock, and mouthed along its length. Mycroft whimpered, and the hot, soft skin felt good against Greg's lips, but it still wasn't enough. He swallowed it down. It filled his mouth, pressing comfortingly on his tongue, and that helped satisfy the cloying need in Greg’s chest. He groaned with his mouth full. Mycroft grabbed onto his hair again as his hips jerked. Greg shoved his hands under Mycroft’s arse and pulled. After a moment something in Mycroft’s animal brain seemed to figure out what Greg was asking and he rolled his hips slowly, pushing his cock further into Greg’s throat.

Both of them slumped, Greg with relief and Mycroft presumably with the gorgeous sensation of thrusting into something hot and wet and resilient. Mycroft rolled his hips again, then again, then took a deep breath in and used the whole thing for a moan that shook and filled the room and went on forever. Even more of Greg’s blood rushed south. _Jesus christ._

Mycroft fucked Greg’s throat carefully a few more times before his hands tightened and he froze. Greg thought an orgasm was imminent, which would have been a shame this early, but it wasn’t; Mycroft’s cock jerked once, and his breathing shook, and after a few moments he let go of Greg’s hair and tugged at his shoulders. “I don’t want to come yet,” he whispered. Greg climbed back up his body and Mycroft crushed him to his chest.

“Okay,” Greg said. He nuzzled against Mycroft’s neck then pulled back to tell him how much he hoped they could make it last a while this time, but his words caught in his throat at the strange expression on Mycroft’s face. “What’s wrong.”

“Everything is wonderful.”

“Something is wrong.”

Mycroft’s mouth, already pressed into a thin line, went tighter. “Nothing is wrong.”

“Something is making you unhappy.”

“No, I assure you.”

“Then what?” 

Mycroft finally looked Greg in the eye. His expression softened and he brushed his fingers through the spiky forelock of hair jutting out over Greg’s forehead. “We can discuss it later. It will keep.”

Greg didn’t want to let it go. But more than that, he wanted back the Mycroft gone hazy and mindless with arousal, not the one whose brain was buzzing with thought. He decided to grant Mycroft his request. This time. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, and curled up to kiss him again.

Greg began to take Mycroft's clothes off, the disparity wearisome in the face of how much Greg had missed Mycroft's skin. He worked at it with single-minded focus until they both could wrap themselves around each other and feel the warm slip of their bodies together.

"God, I've missed this," Mycroft whispered, and Greg's stomach tightened. He tightened his arms fiercely around Mycroft's ribs and pressed his forehead to his temple. The way their legs felt entangled, thigh between thigh, was a revelation. Greg sucked in a breath, held it, and when he exhaled he melted completely against Mycroft’s body.

The slight give of Mycroft’s skin in some places, his bony shoulders and thighs, the warmth and the texture and the _aliveness_ of him, made Greg moan. He began to writhe gently, just trying to get some satisfaction against Mycroft’s body. There was want and need and desire, and a cloying clutch of affection, and it all crawled like electricity under his skin, making it impossible to stay still, impossible to feel sated. He squirmed in as close as possible, his toes curling. Mycroft was hard as stone against the sweat-slick crease of Greg’s hip, and his breath shuddered as he tried to breathe under the slow, grinding, steady onslaught of Greg’s body. He pressed his cheek to Greg’s and let out a cracked whimper.

And in that moment, Greg was done waiting. He burst into action, smearing kisses down Mycroft's neck, sliding his palms over as much of his skin as he could reach, letting need steer his action until Mycroft was gasping and writhing and gripping Greg's hips. Turning Mycroft on was just as heady and exhilarating as it ever had been, and Greg smiled against Mycroft's throat as he stroked up the inside of Mycroft's thigh, through the coppery curls at his groin, and pulled a few times at his cock.

Mycroft moaned. He buried both hands in Greg's hair and tilted his head back into the pillow, baring his throat in a beautiful gesture of submission. Greg's breath stuttered and he scraped his teeth on it, almost immediately causing a trail of reddened lines to spring up.

He was sidetracked enough by the sight to miss Mycroft sliding into position, so when his hand wrapped around both his and Greg's cock at the same time and he rolled his hips, Greg was shocked into making a strangled noise.

"Oh god yes," Mycroft murmured—reverently, meditatively, almost as if he were becoming lost in the pleasure of it. His eyes were closed as he rolled his head back and forth on the pillow and rolled his hips again.

It plucked at something in Greg's chest, and he had to swallow hard. He poured the excess into a fury of passion, rolling his hips in sync with Mycroft and moaning against his throat. They repeated it over and over, building the tension, shaking, reaching desperately for the edge of orgasm. Greg was just welcoming the knot of potential tightening in his groin when Mycroft shifted and pulled away. "Not yet," he murmured, and pushed Greg onto his stomach. Mycroft opened up the bedside drawer and retrieved the bottle of lube. He rolled back over and poured a generous amount into his hand, then spread Greg's legs wide and slicked in between them.

Greg pressed his forehead against the arms folded beneath his head and tried to breathe. The edge of arousal was receding, leaving him antsy. However, the noise of bliss Mycroft made when he closed Greg's thighs and sank between them made it worthwhile.

"Good?" Greg asked, his voice rough. Mycroft answered by pressing his forehead to the back of Greg's shoulder and nodding. His hips snapped forward repeatedly and Greg tried to close his thighs tighter, crossing his ankles. Mycroft made a broken, whining noise and started thrusting faster, and Greg smiled. He lifted his hips when Mycroft tried to worm a hand underneath them, and allowed himself to enjoy the forward push of their bodies which shoved his cock through the tight circle of Mycroft's hand every time he rolled his hips to fuck in between Greg's thighs.

This continued for a little while, Greg lingering in that liminal space pre-orgasm where everything felt endless and gorgeous as it drew up. Mycroft's breath was ragged on the back of Greg's neck and he'd worked up quite a bit of sweat when Greg said quietly, a sideways smile playing his mouth, "Remind you of school?"

Mycroft stopped. He slid up Greg's body, and when Greg opened his eyes Mycroft was peering over his shoulder at him, one eyebrow raised. He was obviously trying not to smirk. "What?" Greg said, stifling a smirk of his own.

"Sometimes I wonder about the image you have of my childhood," Mycroft said.

"I've read Evelyn Waugh."

Mycroft's face twisted into a most ridiculous scowl which was utterly ruined by the upturned corners of his mouth. In one flurry of movement he rolled sideways, flipped Greg over, and slid on top of him like a king of the mountain. He was sat upright astride Greg's thighs, a flush creeping down his narrow chest, erection still proud from his lap. Affection squeezed Greg's breath.

"Evelyn _Waugh?_ " Mycroft fumblingly grabbed Greg's wrists and pinned them wide. They were both sideways on the bed such that Greg's head nearly dangled off the edge. "How old do you think I am?"

"Wait. The _year of publication_ is what's bothering you about this comparison?"

"For a start."

Greg play-acted trying to squirm free of Mycroft's grip, but it was too entertaining to actually fight for freedom. "What year did you stop wearing short trousers? 1934?"

"What age would that make you?"

"Ancient."

"So I'm…"

"Old enough for me to do this, at least." Greg flipped his wrist free of Mycroft's grip and slicked his hand on Mycroft's cock, making his eyes flutter closed and his head go loose on his neck. After a moment of submitting to it, Mycroft reached down to join him. Both their hands pulled on Mycroft while Greg watched his face go more and more slack with pleasure. Greg pulled his hand away. Mycroft blinked his eyes open.

Holding Mycroft's gaze, Greg wrapped his hand around both their cocks and stroked them together. The way Mycroft's eyelids flickered was almost perfect.

Then, all of a sudden, he fell forward and began to roll his hips into Greg's hand. The undulation of Mycroft's spine lit off a fuse in Greg's brain that exploded outward into forceful, vehement passion. Greg let go of their cocks, grabbing Mycroft's arse with both hands, and Mycroft reached down so both of them could fuck through the fumbling circle of his hand. They pushed, and pushed, and worked at it until their breathing was harsh. Each forceful jerk slid them further and further off the edge of the bed until Greg's head hung completely off the end and strained all the muscles down his front. Only Mycroft's weight was keeping him from sliding all the way off. His laboured breathing turned to grunts, then moaning, and as the fatigue grew in his muscles it became long, shaking cries.

At last one of their thrusts was too far, and Greg had to catch himself from slipping off the end of the bed by throwing out an arm and propping himself against the floor. "F-fuck."

Mycroft's eyes opened, then they widened. His face and chest had gone pink and blotchy, and there was a bead of sweat making its way down his chin. His hair was plastered to his forehead. As they looked at each other, his face transformed, and the most brilliant smile Greg had ever seen on him bloomed bright and clear. He looked transcendently happy.

Before Greg could remark on it Mycroft leaned over and tugged him up, and they fell awkwardly back onto the edge of the bed. Greg crawled up to smooth a hand on the side of Mycroft's face. He was over-warm with exertion and a wreck and heart-achingly beautiful. The smile returned.

"You look so happy," Greg whispered, reverent.

Mycroft looked into his eyes for a frozen moment before leaning up to kiss him so hard, so thoroughly Greg was almost bowled backward by the force of it. Greg could only hold on for the ride. He was pushed over further into the centre of the bed and Mycroft climbed on top of him to press him down into the mattress. It seemed natural to hitch a leg over Mycroft's thigh. Immediately, Mycroft ground down against him with an unhinged noise and they went at it again, rolling their hips and pushing their cocks together through the sweat-slick grip of Mycroft's hand. Greg reached down to help, and the pleasure doubled.

"Fuck. Yes," he said through his teeth. "Oh my god, don't you dare stop."

Mycroft whined and leaned down to attempt a kiss. It only bumped their mouths together, but Greg got the intent. He reached up and, with a hand on the back of Mycroft's head, tugged him down and held him in place for a long, filthy, sloppy, gorgeous kiss.

Greg only stopped to turn his head and gasp for air. It gave Mycroft the opportunity to roll over and tug Greg on top of him.

"Please," Mycroft wheezed.

"On top?"

" _Please_."

Greg looked down at the high colour in Mycroft's cheeks and grinned. He didn't doubt his own face was just as shiny and red and horrible, but based in the softness in Mycroft's eyes he didn't seem to care either. The recognition of passion, it seemed, was making the sex cathartic and wild and exhausting and perfect, and Greg wanted to go at it all night—supper and sleeping be damned.

Mycroft fumbled at Greg's cock and pulled it down between his thighs. Mycroft shifted, and his legs closed like a vice. It felt shockingly good.

"My turn?" Greg managed to say.

"Fuck me," Mycroft said, leaning a little on the 'f' and making Greg's brain go nuclear with arousal.

He shoved in hard, over and over and over, palming Mycroft's cock between their bodies. He was losing control of himself and knew it, becoming just a mass of nerve endings and lust and need. Then he noticed a hitching breath from below him, a small click on every exhalation as Mycroft tried to stifle himself from making sound. Greg wondered why now, of all times, he was trying to be quiet.

He dipped his head closer to Mycroft's ear. "Let it out,"

Mycroft's eyes shot open.

"Let it out," Greg said, rolling his hips.

Mycroft pressed his eyes closed and almost seemed to wince. His jaw dropped wide and he let out the most heart-rending sound Greg had heard in recent memory. It was the sound of being overwhelmed with pleasure, with emotion, bliss. It was shattering.

His heart suddenly thudding against his ribs, Greg became relentless, causing wail after wail with the movements of his hips and hand. Evidence of his effect on Mycroft was so goddamn arousing it pushed Greg from merely hard into the stage of arousal close to numbness. He let his head fall to Mycroft's shoulder and allowed himself to make noise as well, crying out with each kick of his hips, sure that any moment he was going to come.

But he didn't want the sex to be over. Not just yet. "Do you want to switch?" he said between breaths.

Mycroft opened his eyes. His face did something complex and unreadable before he shook his head and gasped, "Too— Too late."

Oh. Greg out on a last burst of speed, his movements becoming frantic as he shoved between Mycroft's legs and polished his hand around the head of Mycroft's cock. The angle on his wrist was awkward, but only a few seconds later Mycroft threw back his head and did, indeed, let it out. He came spectacularly, shouting and jerking and clutching on to Greg as if needing some tether to reality. Greg couldn't take his eyes off him even as the pulses slowed, even as it quieted to broken shudders and quiet panting for breath.

Greg found himself staring into Mycroft’s eyes. He felt completely ensnared. Mycroft’s teeth were bared as he breathed through them, and his jaw was tight as if he were clamping down on something. A flash of emotion flooded Greg as they stared at each other, the connection between them flaring wild and strong. With a sudden flip of his stomach Greg _cared_. Painfully. Staring back, Mycroft whimpered quietly through his grimace of exhaustion and sucked in a shaky breath.

It was too much all at once. Greg ducked his head and just kissed him, _kissed him_ , as hard and emphatically as he could. It was a stupid way to hide; if Mycroft knew Greg’s kiss at all—which he surely did, at this point—he was going to know something was going on. But Greg didn’t want to look at it. Not right now.

Mycroft rolled them over and began to stroke Greg while they kissed. It was slick, sloppy, and Greg realised after a moment Mycroft was using his semen as a lubricant. There was something desperately visceral about it, something important, and the edge of Greg's orgasm encroached gradually, deeply, like a slow march toward inexorable but mind-shattering destruction.

He felt poised on the edge for ages, balanced but unready to fall. Then Mycroft leaned down just enough that when he spoke his breath puffed against Greg's lips.

" _Please._ "

With a shock, Greg's entire body collapsed and exploded into a long, unctuous, rolling orgasm that lasted forever, contraction after contraction squeezing in his groin. His throat felt raw by the time he came back to himself. Every nerve in his body was singing with bliss. His toes curled. He shuddered.

"Beautiful," he heard Mycroft murmur. 

Greg couldn't move. Hormones flowed like warm water through his veins. "Jesus," he croaked. He was rocked by a massive spasm between his legs, his body's last-ditch effort to get the most out of the orgasm. Mycroft kissed him on the shoulder. 

Mycroft smeared his mouth down Greg's chest then slipped further south, kissing all of Greg's skin, dragging his tongue through the hair on his belly.

“What are…are you cleaning me—er, _us_ —up with your mouth?”

“Mmhmm.”

“You’re going to get a stomachache.”

“It never seems to bother me.”

Greg carded his fingers through Mycroft's hair. "Get up here.”

With a sigh, Mycroft plastered himself to Greg and kissed him so deeply, so thoroughly, that Greg almost regretted the fact that he’d just come. The semen on his tongue was from both of them mixed together, and the thought curled his toes.

The tension in Greg's neck twanged, presumably a side-effect of having been fucked off the end of the bed. He slid his hand under the back of his neck as a support while they kissed.

Mycroft mouthed down Greg's jaw, his throat, to his collarbone, and out to his shoulder. For the first time ever, he traced with his fingertips the blurry blue-black designs on Greg's shoulder, the most visible remnant of his rebellious youth.

"You've never asked," Greg said quietly.

"I never thought it was my place."

"People I've known less well than you have asked."

Mycroft just looked at him. It took Greg a good few seconds to realise that was exactly the point; they'd been in such an amorphous place for so long, not casual but not recognising the seriousness either, that Mycroft may very well not have known whether he could ask or not. Greg wanted to kiss him just for some measure of reassurance.

"My father," Greg said. "He died."

"You were young."

"I was twenty."

"That's still young."

"You couldn't have told me that back then. I felt ageless."

Mycroft started digging his fingers into the back of Greg's neck, kneading the sore muscles. Of course he'd noticed. "As most young people do," he said, and Greg rolled onto his stomach.

He propped his forehead on his folded arms so he could still speak. "Especially my friends. I…didn't take it very easily back then."

"You seldom take it easy right now." Mycroft leaned over and kissed the scar on Greg's shoulder.

He huffed a dry laugh. "That's not what I meant."

"I'm aware."

A few moments passed as Mycroft massaged Greg's neck and shoulders. He was rather good at it. It was those _hands_ , Greg supposed. He wondered if Mycroft ever sculpted. "The guitar is…was…my connection to him. One of the only ones."

"He played it for you."

Greg nodded. "Tried to teach me how, but it didn't stick. I was more interested in electric at that point. Simple. Loud."

"You were young."

"I was a young and angry twenty."

"Even before he passed?"

" _Passed._ You don't need to sugarcoat it. It's been a long time. He was killed in an accident at the plant. He didn't just…slip quietly away in his bed."

Mycroft's hands slowed. "My apologies."

Greg shook his head against his forearms. "Sorry. I guess it still rankles, even now."

"I don't doubt it."

"Anyway." Greg lifted a thumb up to gesture at his shoulder. "Guitar for him. Years are his birth and death."

"Is there a significance to the angle at which they are placed?"

Trust Mycroft to notice that, too. Greg considered making up an answer. But, as they were naked in bed and embarking on a…thing, he settled on admitting the truth. "I really liked The Clash."

"I'm sorry, I don't…"

Greg waved a few fingers to brush it away. "There's an album cover. It doesn't matter."

"It does to you."

"It did to me. As I said, that was a long time ago."

"You wouldn't make the same choice now?"

Shrugging one shoulder against Mycroft's hands, Greg made a noise of indecision. "I don't know. I'm not the same person I was."

They fell silent. Mycroft shifted, and then he began to drop soft kisses down Greg's spine. They made him shiver, and the hairs on his forearms stood.

"What about your mother?" Mycroft said against Greg's skin.

"Are you collecting information?"

"I _could_ just look at your file."

"That wouldn't give you the information you probably want, though."

"No need to make it sound prosecutorial, Gregory."

Once again there was silence between them. Mycroft examined every inch of Greg's back with his fingers and his mouth. The touch was relaxing, but still Greg's mind spun with the concept that eventually, inevitably, he'd have to tell his mother about them. His stomach churned with nerves.

Mycroft rubbed his whole palm down Greg's back. "What kind of music did your father play on the guitar, if you preferred something louder and more simple?" he said.

"Folk," Greg said, grateful for the change of subject. Mycroft must have noticed renewed tension in his muscles or something. Fucking Holmeses. "And sea chanteys."

"Did he sing them as well?"

Greg nodded. "He would make me sing the melody sometimes, so he could sing harmonies. He loved harmonies."

Mycroft's hands hesitated. "You can sing?"

Stomach churning for a very different reason this time, Greg shrugged. "I can carry a tune. Can't say I make a beautiful noise, though."

There was no verbal response, but Greg knew— _knew_ , with a certainty born of experience—that Mycroft was only barely holding himself back from requesting an example. Sally had harangued him for a week until he'd given in. Victoria had met him while they were standing next to each other at a concert, so she needed no such demonstration: she'd heard it all night. Other mates had heard him in the shower, or in the car. But this…this was different. This would be a very intimate concert.

Mycroft continued not to ask, though, which firmed Greg's decision. Leaving his head turned away and pillowed on his arms, Greg sang the first thing that popped into his head.

"Close your eyes and I'll kiss you,  
Tomorrow I'll miss you,  
and you know that I'll always be true.  
And while I'm away I'll write home every day,  
and I'll send all my loving to you."

It was more rasping than usual, and it was tough to get enough air while lying on his stomach, but nonetheless Greg thought he'd done it admirably. Belatedly he had a wealth of second thoughts about the choice of content, but it was too late now. He shifted.

When long moments spun on with no response from Mycroft Greg rolled his head to look at him. His eyes were closed, and the muscles around his eyes were almost pained, but only a split second after Greg turned the expression was wiped and replaced with one of casual approval. The memory of it remained clear, though, and plucked at Greg's heart.

"Thank you," Mycroft said.

"Er. You're welcome?"

Mycroft broke eye contact and sat up tall, stretching his neck as he looked away. When he swallowed, Greg could see his adam's apple bob. "On the subject of demonstrations, perhaps we shouldn't let supper sit for very much longer."

Greg blinked at the rapid change of subject. "Yes. No, you're right," he said, pushing up into a sitting position. "Sorry, I…got a bit sidetracked." With shagging. Par for the course, really.

He rolled gracelessly out of bed. For some reason, he felt a pang of self-consciousness about being naked before he dismissed it as ridiculous. He rummaged around on the floor for his boxers, feeling Mycroft's eyes on him the whole time.

They'd somehow ended up under the chair in the corner. Greg stepped into them and glanced at Mycroft without turning his head. Mycroft had begun his own scan of the room, presumably looking for his own pants. Sidetracked by the sight Greg lost his balance. He caught himself on the chair and looked at Mycroft to see if he'd witnessed that blunder. If he had, his face didn't show it; he was gazing resolutely away with a placid lack of expression. Greg watched him elegantly lean over the edge of the bed to pluck his shirt from the floor. Mycroft then cast Greg a sneaky look out of the corner of his eye and flushed when he was caught.

"I don't know why you're bothering with that," Greg said. He gestured to the shirt.

Mycroft blinked at him, his cheek stained pink. "Pardon me?"

Instead of answering Greg tossed his own dressing gown onto the bed. "If you absolutely must, this would be better."

Mycroft picked it up, but said nothing. He was still blushing. Greg realised with a start that he found it _adorable_. Greg waited just until Mycroft had tied the gown around his waist then stepped in to snog the life out of him. After a few moments he broke the kiss to find Mycroft blinking, startled and pink-cheeked.

"What was that for?"

Greg couldn't help grinning at the expression on Mycroft's face. "You should bring one to leave here," he said, tugging on the lapels of the dressing gown. "For next time. If you're going to insist upon getting dressed afterward."

Mycroft's expression cleared with shock, then melted into pleasure. "Oh?"

Greg leaned in to give him a soft, lingering kiss. "So you can come over whenever you like," he said against his mouth. He sucked Mycroft’s lower lip for a moment. “Open invitation.”

Mycroft’s slow-dawning smile could make make the sun look dim. “All right,” he said, and Greg was helpless but to steal one more kiss.

Temporarily sated, he slipped out of Mycroft's arms and led him out to the kitchen. The joy on his face sat warm in Greg's chest as he went to the cooktop to see what of their supper he could rescue.

"So. Sharon?" Mycroft said to Greg's back.

"No," he said, "I'm Greg." He stomach flipped.

"Gregory."

He knew exactly what Mycroft was asking. That didn't mean he really wanted to address it, however. There wasn't any reason he _couldn't_ tell Mycroft about Sharon, but like the tattoo, sharing just seemed a little…vulnerable.

On the other hand, an increasing part of him wanted to tell Mycroft _everything_.

"What do you want to hear?"

"I…" Mycroft sounded surprised. "I don't know."

That was strange enough that Greg turned. "Really?"

"Is that so strange?"

"Yes."

Mycroft pressed his mouth into a line. "I've said before. I don't… That is, this isn't a field I have much experience with."

"You don't even know what to ask, do you?"

"University? Isn't that the done thing? Ask about university?" He seemed flustered, uncertain, at-sea.

The affection he felt rose up and swamped him, squeezing his lungs. Greg put down the pan of risotto he was trying to salvage and turned round to where Mycroft was sitting at the table. He took Mycroft's face in both hands and planted a kiss on his mouth. 

The look of confusion on his face was a joy. "What was that—?" he said.

Greg's stomach fluttered and it all came spilling out. "Sharon is doing well. She just won a place at a film programme in Los Angeles."

Mycroft examined him and the confused expression faded. His eyes began to shine with pleasure. "You are proud."

"Of course I am." Greg began to grin. "She's wanted to be a director since she was a girl."

"Is it a prestigious programme?"

"That's what I'm told."

"She must have talent."

"I'm hardly an objective judge, but yeah. I think so." Greg couldn't look away from the glow on Mycroft's face, even as he felt pride thicken his throat.

Mycroft kept staring back. Greg wondered what he was thinking. "What sort of films?" he asked.

"Small art-house films so far," Greg said. "Often dark humour. Dry. A bit grotesque."

"I wonder where she got that from?" said Mycroft with a twist to his mouth.

Greg smirked. "I have no idea."

They stared at each other. Greg's heart was pounding in his ears.

Mycroft's stomach growled into the silence between them. Spots of colour bloomed on his cheeks, and Greg wanted to kiss him again. Instead, he gestured with his thumb to the worktop behind him. "Risotto. But the chicken marsala might be completely ruined. It's stone cold."

"I apologise."

Greg realised Mycroft might be blaming himself for sweeping Greg off to bed instead of eating a meal prepared for him, and he wanted to head that off at the pass. "No, please. I'm just sorry I can't impress you with my culinary skills."

"I got the impression earlier that you didn't think much of your culinary skills in the first place."

"Yeah. I can use all the advantages I can get. Maybe I should get you drunk."

Mycroft looked appalled at the notion. "Perhaps you could simply reheat it."

"I'm sure I could," said Greg, amused by Mycroft's horror. “But I'd wanted to serve you something a bit nicer."

"I won't think any less of you, I promise."

"Does that leave a wide margin?" Greg quipped and turned back to the worktop, but not before spotting a flash of something unsettled in Mycroft's expression. He thought he might have been too glib, but the words couldn't be unsaid. Rather than call further attention to his misstep he devised a plan to reheat their meal.

"Tell me more about Sharon," Mycroft said as Greg poured more wine into the pan with the chicken and turned the flame back on.

"More about her films?"

"Or…anything else you're proud of."

Mycroft's tone was…interested, which Greg would have expected, and soft, which he wouldn't have. "Well," Greg said, stalling for time. "She danced while she was growing up."

"Danced?"

"Classical. Ballet, mostly."

"Did she excel at it?"

"She was…above average. But she's a bit tall to be professional, and a bit broad-beamed, so once she realised playing Giselle wasn't in her future she started focusing more on her films."

"She's tall?"

"Taller than a prima ballerina should be, yeah."

"Is Victoria tall?"

It was the first time Mycroft had brought up Victoria since the fight in Baskerville. Greg tread lightly. "About my height. Taller in heels."

"So Sharon is about your height as well."

"A tiny bit taller, actually." Greg screwed up his mouth regretfully as he stirred the sauce in the pan, willing it to reduce faster. By now he was _starving_. "Very few things are more demoralising than to be outgrown by one's children."

"So I've been informed."

Greg pictured both Holmes boys towering over their parents, and grinned to himself. "I bet." He almost asked about Mycroft's parents, but was afraid that Mycroft would slip out of answering—as he seemed to whenever Greg asked about something personal—and Greg didn't want to be rebuffed today. He didn't want awkwardness or disappointment.

"How long did she dance?"

"Er…I guess…" Greg did quick maths in his head as he added a bit more herbs and the last of the mushrooms to the pan in an attempt to balance out the sauce. He was just going on instinct at this point, and began to worry that he had no business doing what he was doing. It would at least be edible, however, and that was the point. Even if it wasn't perfect. Even if he didn't have leftover mushrooms for breakfast. That fact was quite a disappointment, actually; he'd really been looking forward to leftover mushrooms.

Especially if Mycroft finally stayed for breakfast.

"…About ten years, I guess?" he said. "She started when she was six."

"Did she perform?"

"They had…small recitals, and a large show every once in a while. They were incredibly dull. I was only there to see Sharon, and she was only in a few numbers. I tried to sneak out once she was done but Victoria never let me."

"She wanted to stay for curtain call."

"Of course she d—" Greg had turned slightly to pull a face at Mycroft, but when he saw what he was doing all sarcasm flew from his head. "...When did you start that?"

"Just now. I hope you didn't require this envelope later."

Greg turned the heat down low and stepped away to look over his shoulder at the sketch Mycroft was working on. "Sod the envelope. Oh my god." He felt himself blush furiously as he watched Mycroft draw him standing shirtless at the hob, posing with an elegance Greg had never felt in his life. He felt a thrill of fight-or-flight, torn between going back to the food or watching Mycroft's hand shade the background behind Greg's torso.

There was a care, there, in the line of Greg's shoulders, in the angle of his head, in his eyes, and it was a bit embarrassing. It was also beautiful. Flight won out and he went back to heating up their meal.

He cleared his throat. "That's." And he swallowed. "That's really beautiful, Mycroft."

Mycroft said nothing for a few moments. "Thank you."

"Where did you find the biro?"

"It was next to the envelope on the sideboard, Gregory."

"I'd hardly call it a sideboard." It was a narrow desk wedged into the corner.

"I hope you don't mind. It was right on top."

No. Greg didn't mind at all. _Minding_ was not currently on the top of his list. Embarrassment, sure, as well as surprise and flattery, and something else warm and shaky settling in his gut. Probably nerves.

He kept poking at their supper. "No, that's— It's really lovely. Not sure about your choice of subject, but."

Presumably Mycroft was focussing on his drawing, because he stayed silent as Greg finished rescuing the meal. Mycroft pushed his drawing aside as if it were nothing when Greg brought the food to the table.

"What are your plans for that?" Greg asked.

Mycroft twitched a shrug. "I hadn't really thought about it."

"May I…" Embarrassment clutched at him, so he stalled by scooping out some risotto onto both their plates. "If you don't have plans for it, I'd like to…keep it."

For some reason, Mycroft looked surprised. "Of course. If you'd like it."

Greg blinked at him. "Why wouldn't I?"

"It's nothing. Just a sketch."

A larger load of bullshit Greg hadn't heard all week, and he'd had to interview a witness who claimed her Rottweiler was the one who had opened up a locked basement door. "Still," he said.

Mycroft caught his eye for just a bare moment before looking away again. His adam’s apple bobbed. "Of course."

In silence, Greg dished up the rest of their supper and poured the wine Mycroft had brought. In the corner of his eye he saw Mycroft fiddling anxiously with the hem of the dressing gown's sleeve.

Greg picked up his own wine glass once everything was ready and waited for Mycroft to get the hint. When he did Greg hoisted his glass in his direction. His stomach flipped. This time he didn’t censor himself—he came right out and said it. "To us."

He felt a moment of fear when Mycroft's face instantly froze into an expressionless mask, but then it melted, eased, and the smile Mycroft gave him wrapped around them both like a blanket.

* * *

The meal was acceptable. It wasn't half so good as it usually was when fresh, and the chicken wasn't as tender as it could have been, but the sauce was rich and the risotto creamy and Greg was hungry as hell. Mycroft seemed to like it, at least, which was a vote on its side. He even joined in for seconds when Greg went back for more, which Greg judged as a bit of a coup; Mycroft seldom ate as much as Greg did, a fact which had been dawning slowly over the course of their relationship.

Greg was splitting the last of their wine between them when Mycroft spoke.

"I wish you wouldn't judge your cooking so harshly. This was excellent."

Greg responded with a half-shrug. "It's not difficult. Anyone could do it."

Mycroft tilted his head again, that expression where he tucked his chin down and raised his eyebrows up and the combination conveyed extreme doubt. "Untrue, Gregory."

Greg shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I've just made it a lot."

"Why is that?"

"Victoria and Sharon liked it."

"And you didn't?"

"I wasn't making it for me."

Mycroft just stared at him.

"Right, yes, I liked it. But they _really_ liked it, so I made it when it was my turn to cook. This, and meatloaf, and Leftover Stirfry."

" _Leftover Stirfry._ "

Greg huffed a laugh at threw his napkin at the look of distaste in the set of Mycroft's features. "Shut it."

"No no, I'm sure it's delicious."

"Be quiet."

"Worth several Michelin Stars—"

Greg leaned over and kissed Mycroft to stop him speaking. He felt him startle, then tilt his head to deepen the kiss. Mycroft tasted like wine and smelled faintly, ever so faintly, of sex. Greg's heart clenched and he reluctantly pulled away.

"I should clear up," he said softly, sitting back into his seat. He could only bear to look into Mycroft's eyes for a few seconds at a time.

"Probably so."

"Did you have enough?"

Mycroft looked into his eyes then away. "I have, thank you."

"Are you interested in pudding?"

"Did you plan something?"

Greg licked his lips. "Vanilla ice cream."

Mycroft's chest rose and fell underneath Greg's dressing gown, and he swallowed. Greg stared back. He thought about cherries jubilee. "I think I'd like to go back to bed now," Mycroft said, almost at a whisper.

His heart suddenly racing, Greg stood. Mycroft followed and Greg found himself reeled in and wrapped up and kissed within an inch of his life. He whimpered as his knees buckled. Mycroft's breath was shaky against Greg's cheek, and he held him so tightly not an inch of space was between them. Greg could feel the soft, thick cloth of his dressing gown pressed against his bare skin from chest to thigh.

Mycroft readjusted his grip on Greg's back and kissed him again: slow, deep, in waves and waves of passion. Greg felt as if his bones were sublimating. His toes curled. His head swum. His heart clenched tight and then began to beat its way out of his chest. "Oh, christ…" said Greg, his voice low and forced through a sudden thickness of his throat. _Oh god._

Mycroft began to steer them backward into the corridor toward Greg's room. Greg stopped them part way to grab hard onto Mycroft's arse and kiss him as deeply and slowly as he could. Mycroft made a fantastic half-whine into Greg's mouth and jolted as his knees seemed to wobble. Greg felt arousal begin to settle in, heartbeat by heartbeat, slowly setting him on fire.

With a bit of a shudder, Mycroft broke the kiss and pressed his face to Greg's neck.

"Okay?" Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded.

Greg slid his hands up and down Mycroft's back. "You're sure?"

Mycroft nodded again. "Just." He cleared his throat. "Please give me a moment."

So for several minutes Greg held Mycroft and Mycroft held him back and they just breathed. Greg felt affection squeezing at his ribs and he took it out on Mycroft's, tightening his grip around his torso until he felt as if his ribs might creak. He sucked in air, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, just trying to stay afloat.

After a few long minutes Mycroft cleared his throat and briefly hugged Greg harder. "My apologies."

Greg shook his head. "I don't know why you're apologising, but please stop."

"I'm afraid I got a little—"

With a kiss, Greg stopped him speaking. "That's fine."

"We can continue." He pulled carefully away.

Greg slid his hand down and interlaced their fingers. The intimacy made the muscle fibres in his forearm tingle and twitch. The feeling of Mycroft's palm against his was a warm, damp, shock of sensitivity. Mycroft looked into his eyes for a moment before allowing himself to be led down the corridor to Greg's bedroom, surrounded awkwardly by the photos of Sharon as a little girl Greg had mounted as decoration on the walls.

Mycroft sat first on Greg's bed. He looked up wide-eyed at Greg, and for a second Greg was caught in his gaze, mesmerised. He set a knee on either side of Mycroft's hips and watched a look of fear creep over his face as Greg plucked up Mycroft's hands from where they were laying slack at his sides and placed them on either side of his waist.

After a moment of shaky breathing, Mycroft's fingers curled into Greg's flesh. Greg's heart was racing with nerves as he examined Mycroft's face from so close: the pulse at his throat; his wide, dark eyes; the swipe of his tongue when it wet his lips. There was a vague rushing in his ears as he stroked the fingertips of both hands over the bare stubble on Mycroft's cheeks and then Greg dipped his head down to brush his mouth over Mycroft's.

The kiss remained a lax, shaking touch of lips even when Mycroft's hands tightened at Greg's waist. It remained a soft, wet play of mouths even as affection and care rose up in Greg's chest and made it difficult to breathe. It remained slow and exploratory even when instinct urged Greg to break the tension of the moment, to push Mycroft down and ride his thigh to completion. Something held him back, and Greg listened.

Mycroft broke first. Trembling, he made a whimpering noise and pulled away to bury his face in Greg's shoulder. Greg wrapped his arms tightly around his shoulders and leaned against him.

"Shhh…" Greg said. He kissed Mycroft's ear.

In response Mycroft heaved Greg sideways and managed to spill him mostly onto the bed, with only his ankle dangling off the mattress. Mycroft crawled up to lay next to him and gather him up into his arms, pulling Greg closer to the centre of the bed. His leg was exposed up to his thigh as he wrapped it around Greg's hips. Greg wished he could look down and explore the coppery leg hair he was running his fingertips through, but judging by the insistent way Mycroft was lipping up Greg's jaw toward his mouth it seemed more kissing was on the menu instead.

Greg didn't mind in the least.

The fact that Mycroft was taking charge was also a bit lovely. Greg let himself be steered into an extended snogging session, during which Mycroft's dressing gown fell open to reveal all his soft skin to Greg's touch, and Greg felt stubble burn rasp hotly on his chin, and they both seemed to lose all focus beyond kissing and touching and nipping and rubbing against each other, exploring their bodies without much urgency.

After the extended time breathing against each other's skin Greg was physically and emotionally aroused, but instead of pushing forward he let it all slow even further until they were simply wrapped around each other and panting. When Mycroft buried his face in Greg's neck, Greg pushed his fingers into Mycroft's hair and cradled his head.

 _'Casual' my arse._ Greg felt like a first-class idiot.

"How are you?" he asked, and gently cleared his throat.

"Excellent, thank you," Mycroft said, his voice muffled against Greg's shoulder.

Greg couldn't help smiling at the formality. "Good." He breathed in Mycroft's scent and let it out on a sigh. He was immensely happy.

"I seem to constantly be surprised by how different this is from last time."

Not immediately knowing just what the hell Mycroft was referring to, Greg cycled through various options—when they shagged earlier that night? the last time they'd seen each other? their date at Mycroft's house after football?—before giving up. He shook his head. "Last time meaning…"

"When I was twenty-two."

Mycroft was actually talking about his past. Greg prayed his surprise didn't stiffen his muscles and spook him into stopping.

"She was a powder-keg. A work of mind-shattering genius. And our relationship, such as it was, was a theoretical dream but a practical nightmare. At the time, I was…less-than-pleased when she had gone, but over the years I've come to identify it as the blessing in disguise it really was. Her fire was…galvanising."

After almost half a minute of silence Greg decided Mycroft was through sharing, and tried to translate all his new information: Mycroft had been with a woman when he was twenty-two. It was a rough relationship. She'd left and broken his heart, and Mycroft is the person he is today at least partly because of her. Greg pictured a young, coltish Mycroft wide-eyed and devastated as he was left alone again, and it made Greg hug him tighter. There were so goddamn many questions he wanted to ask—not the least of which was in what way this was different from last time—but he kept his teeth together and held Mycroft until his arm was starting to fall asleep and the latter shifted in his arms.

"Regretfully," Mycroft said, "I fear the wine has caught up with me."

Greg realised he too had to use the toilet rather badly. Given the strange new borders of their relationship it was less awkward than he would have expected, pausing their cuddle to take care of the situation. They unpicked their knotted limbs and Greg couldn't help smiling at Mycroft as he stood: mussed, flushed, swollen-mouthed, gorgeous. He grinned harder.

Mycroft looked down at Greg spread out across the bed and he too smiled. He tried to hide it by turning his head. "I'll be only a moment."

They took turns in the en-suite. Greg crawled back in bed with a grin already spreading across his face, and Mycroft helped him push down the covers so they could crawl beneath them. Bladder empty, stomach pleasantly full, a comfortable bed with Mycroft naked and warm and smiling…

Greg's cheeks hurt with the joy of it.

"Welcome back," Mycroft said, brushing his fingertips along the side of Greg's face and gazing at him with undisguised wonder.

Greg pounced and bore him back onto the mattress with a kiss. He felt, rather than heard, Mycroft start to laugh. He pulled back to find Mycroft giggling, his smile crinkling up his nose.

"Well, then," Mycroft said.

"Hello."

"That was…exuberant." His eyes sparkled in the low light from the bedside lamp.

"Yes." Greg couldn't stop grinning at him. _You make me so fucking happy._ His chest clenched and he bit his lip.

Mycroft's ribcage flared as his breath caught, and he ducked in to kiss Greg, wet and sloppy and imprecise due to their smiles. His hand was cold on the back of Greg's neck as he held him in place, presumably from being washed and incompletely dried. Greg decided he'd been in a hurry to get back in bed, and the idea sat warm and soft in his gut.

The kiss softened and faded and Mycroft pressed his face to Greg's shoulder yet again. He wondered if maybe this was a way of hiding. Greg combed his fingers through Mycroft's hair and let it happen.

"So very different from long ago," he heard Mycroft say quietly.

Greg dared. "How?"

Mycroft lifted up his head. His expression was somehow shy. "Because this time I'm smiling."

Greg was seized by a tremendous compulsion to kiss Mycroft all over his face. He pressed kiss after kiss down his jaw and up his cheeks, over each eye, on that biteable nose, and finally on his mouth. Greg squirmed, emotion sitting discomfortingly close under the surface of his skin. He pushed Mycroft onto his back and climbed on top of him to nuzzle his face into his neck.

With only a small rearrangement of limbs they settled down nestled together underneath the covers. Greg had a passing thought about shagging, but he was so comfortable, and Mycroft was breathing so easily, and the events of the day had started to catch up with him.

"Will you be here when I wake up?" Greg asked with his eyes already slipping closed. Mycroft neck was soft and smelled fantastic as usual, and it leached out all the tension from Greg's muscles.

"I made arrangements not to be disturbed until the afternoon."

"You can do that?"

"Occasionally."

"And you wanted to cash it in this time?"

"I can think of very few times when it would be more appropriate."

The corners of Greg's mouth quirked, and he pressed a lazy kiss to Mycroft's skin. "Good."

Mycroft's fingers trailed up and down Greg's spine just once before his hand fell slack again at the small of his back. "Better than I could say," he said, and Greg wasn't aware of anything else until morning.

* * *

When Greg awoke, he stretched with a delicious sense of satisfaction in his bones. There was a brief moment of disappointment when he realised that Mycroft was no longer in bed, but he heard the sound of water moving through the pipes. The door to the en-suite was open and the light was off, so presumably he was in the kitchen. Greg took a few minutes to luxuriate in the warmth before getting up to use the toilet and clean his teeth, then he padded out to the kitchen wearing only his boxers.

Mycroft was standing in the kitchen in Greg's dressing gown again, and the room was filled with the smell of coffee.

"I hope you don't mind me taking liberties," Mycroft said. "I wanted to have this ready for you when you woke." He pressed down the plunger on the cafetière.

"You sainted being." Greg stepped in to claim a kiss before pulling down two mugs and getting out milk and sugar.

"Hardly that." Twin spots of pink bloomed on Mycroft's cheeks. Greg wanted to kiss both of them, but instead he went out to get the newspaper and try to shake it off.

When he got back he tossed the paper onto his chair and started to clear the mess they'd made last night. It looked as if Mycroft had done what he could, but had stopped partway.

"I'd wanted to do the washing up, but then I thought that might be presumptive," he said.

The urge to kiss him was back again. "I'm not going to ditch you just because you did the washing up while letting me sleep in, Mycroft." Greg snorted. Put like that, it was even more hilarious.

Next to him, Mycroft's adam's apple bobbed and he put just the correct amount of sugar in Greg's coffee. "No?"

"Laughable." He reached around Mycroft's head and pulled it close so he could lay a smacking kiss on the apple of his cheek. "I'd be a fool."

Mycroft caught his eye, and there was something so hesitant in his expression that Greg forgot all about his joking. He stepped in even closer, so his front brushed the trailing edges of the dressing gown Mycroft was wearing. He tried to hold Mycroft's gaze even as it skittered away. "I'd be a _fool_."

Finally Mycroft submitted to look into his eyes. "I don't know how to respond to that."

Greg took his face in both hands and kissed him, soft and slow and tender. He brushed his mouth back and forth across Mycroft's. "That's okay. We'll figure it out." The moment between them was heavy, and Greg let it stay that way for several seconds before he pulled away. "Come on," he said, and tugged Mycroft toward the table by the tie around his waist. "Let's clear this up, and then you can help me make breakfast. It'll be nice having an extra pair of hands."

Before he turned to set a stack of plates in the sink, Greg saw Mycroft smile.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Mycroft? Who the hell names a kid Mycroft?"_   
>  _"Sharon."_   
>  _"I tell you what: I'm getting some very silly mental images right now."_   
>  _"Sharon."_   
>  _"He's all posh and ridiculous and wears a monocle or something, doesn't he?"_   
>  _"No, he…not entirely."_
> 
> Things have officially changed. In spite of the chaos, though, Greg's suspects they've changed for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my thanks to Mazarin221B, BillieThePoet, and HiddenLacuna for their patience and time and generosity as betas for this story. They've gone above and beyond.

On his lunch break, Greg threw on some gym clothes and went for a run; he couldn't stop smiling, and he feared it was starting to put everyone in the office on edge.

He headed up Broadway toward the park, revelling in the stretch of his muscles and the invigorating pump of blood through his veins. Running in trainers, unencumbered by belts and keys and suit trousers, always gave him a delicious sense of freedom. Which, of course, only made him smile wider. An old man collecting litter gave him a strange look.

For about forty-five minutes he let himself run aimlessly to try and get his brain back. The past two days had been spent in a glorious fog of hormones and joy, but he was back at work now, and he needed to focus on something other than the feel of Mycroft's hands and the smell of his neck. All told they'd only spent Friday night and Saturday morning together, but even when Mycroft had gone Greg found himself lost in the middle of tasks, daydreaming as he hoovered and sidetracked as he emptied out the rubbish.

 _Like a lovesick teenager,_ he thought, and squashed the thought firmly away.

But now it was Monday, and if he spent the day in as much of a fog as he'd spent the weekend he was going to be in trouble. 

Just as he hit the park his mobile pinged.

"Hey sweetheart." Greg trotted over to the side of the path and bent over to catch his breath.

"Er, are you okay?" Sharon said.

"Yeah, just—" Greg panted a few times. "Just on a run."

"Oh, sorry. I'll let you get back to it. I don't want to interrupt."

"Don't be ridiculous." Greg stretched his back and slowed to a fast walk, trying to keep at least a little warm. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, I'm just… It's just… I'm starting to do some of the paperwork for the trip, and I'd like some help. Support. Focus. Something."

"Of course."

"I'd ask Mum, but she's… This is still kind of a fraught subject, you know?"

"I get it."

"And I'd like to spend some time with you _before_ the holidays. So it’s quieter. And this stuff should be done sooner rather than later, in case there are issues with visas and whatnot."

"Of course."

"So do you think I could…come down there? Maybe spend the weekend, hang out? Hey, I know! You can treat me to that vegan place you mentioned…”

"Yeah, I see what you just did."

"Please?" He could hear the smile in her voice.

"Did you think I was going to say no?"

"Not really."

"I've been wanting to see you for months now."

"I know."

"Come on down, then. What weekend?" Greg couldn't stop smiling. This was turning out to be a fantastic week— He stopped dead as a thrill of fear shot through him. Mycroft. He was definitely going to have to tell her about Mycroft. There was no way he could hide it from her for an entire weekend. She'd know something was up, and he hated lying to her. He always had; it had made Christmases and birthdays rather a trial. He was going to have to tell her, and it would have to be soon.

Perhaps it should be now.

"…Maybe not then," she was saying. "Maybe…could we do it in three weeks? Three weeks from now? Would that be okay?"

He swallowed down the cold lump of nerves just behind his sternum. "Erm, sweetheart, there's…something I should tell you." His stomach clenched.

"Oh my god. What are you doing that weekend? That I'm not going to like?"

"No, it's not— It's…" He blew out a long, steadying breath between pursed lips. _You can do this._ "I've…started seeing someone."

There was a moment of silence broken by the sort of squeal he thought she'd long since given up producing. "That's AMAZING news. How long? Who is it? Do I know her?"

His heart gave a particularly scary thump in his chest. He walked toward the nearest shop to get a bottle of water. "Er, no, you've never met…er…h-him."

There was another, more terrifying, moment of silence. Then she said, "Well? Can I?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Can I meet him? When I come down to visit? Is that what you're saying?"

"I don't…" Greg's brain was filled with static. "I don't know if that's a good—"

"What are you afraid of? Is he ugly?"

" _No_ …"

"Then what?"

The fear resolved in the image of Mycroft and Sharon getting along like gangbusters and turning against him. He wouldn't stand a _chance_ against the two of them joined together. "I'm afraid you'll tell him all the bad things about me and he'll run away." It was only a slight deflection.

To his horror, she laughed. "That sounds like an excellent idea."

"No, Sharon…"

"This is going to be fantastic."

"Sharon…"

"Just wait."

"This is a terrible idea."

"Are you freaked out because he's a him?"

Well. That was blunt. "Aren't…aren't you?"

"I'm just surprised you've managed to pull the trigger on a relationship at all."

"Hey!"

"What the hell do I care if it's a guy? I've known you also fancied guys for ages."

He scrubbed his forehead with his palm and tried to steady himself with another deep breath. That put paid to _that_ fear, at least. One down, 9,999,999 more to go…

"You really, really don't want me to meet him?" she said.

"It's not that—"

"Or do you not want him to meet _me_?"

Oh for fuck's sake. "No, Sharon, that's not…"

"Then whaaaaat?"

"I don't…I don't know! I don't know, okay. This isn't…"

"You're scared."

He swallowed. "Of course I am."

"It's just new. You'll get used to it. Change is good."

This was intolerable. "I don't want to talk to you anymore."

Sharon giggled. "I'll email you my itinerary for the train down. Three weeks. Don't forget. And tell him— What the hell is his name, anyway?"

Greg heaved a sigh. "Mycroft."

" _Mycroft_? Who the hell names a kid _Mycroft_?"

"Sharon."

"I tell you what: I'm getting some very silly mental images right now."

"Sharon."

"He's all posh and ridiculous and wears a monocle or something, doesn't he?"

"No, he…not entirely."

She cracked up. This weekend was going to be torture. "Three weeks. Give him enough notice. That would be polite."

"This is going to give me nightmares."

"Don't worry. It'll all soon be over."

"That's what I'm worried about."

"Love you Dad…"

He sighed again. "I love you too…"

"Byyeee…" She hung up, and Greg just stood on the path, blinking, feeling like he'd just been hit by a truck. He was looking forward to seeing her, but hoped mentioning Mycroft wouldn't turn out to be a mistake.

* * *

He picked up a burrito for the walk home, and got back to the Yard just in time to shower and change back into his work clothes. The fresh air had been good for his focus, but his buoyant mood had been skewered by the idea of Sharon and Mycroft meeting each other. Besides the idea of them getting on like gangbusters he couldn't put his finger on exactly why the idea made him nervous as hell, but it absolutely did.

He'd just about settled down at his desk again when there was yet another disruption to his happy mood: Sherlock and John pushed into the room without knocking.

"Sherlock, you just can't—" John was saying, apparently trying to maintain some modicum of manners, but he was ignored. His voice rasped horribly.

"Lestrade, I'm told you need me to fill out some of your damned paperwork."

Greg blinked at him. Sherlock was volunteering to do his own work? It was too much to take it immediately, so he turned to John first. "What's wrong with you?"

"Oh, the…" John gestured vaguely at his throat. "Cold."

"It's that godforsaken _thing_ that you had." Sherlock glared at Greg, and, now that he as listening for it, Sherlock did sound a bit wrecked.

"You both have it?" Greg tried to school his features into complete implacability. He felt slightly bad for John, but there was always a bit of schadenfreude whenever Sherlock was ill. It happened so rarely, and Sherlock was always so miserable to anyone else whenever _they_ thoughtlessly came down with something, that Greg always considered it a minor victory for mankind when Sherlock had even the sniffles.

"Yes." Sherlock jiggled whatever crap was in the pockets of his coat, seeming unsettled and anxious.

"Doesn't feel too good, does it?"

"Could you not _gloat_ , please? Sherlock scowled.

John rolled his eyes. "He's here to do the paperwork because, well…he just is."

"Can we get _on with it?_ " Sherlock paced back and forth in Greg's office like a dark and particularly-cranky lion.

"Seriously, John?" Greg raised an eyebrow. "Is he just here to spread his germs all over the Yard?"

"That wasn't the first intention, no," John said.

Sherlock punctuated this by pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and blowing his nose into it with a vigorous honk.

"Dare I ask what the first intention was, then?" Greg asked. He wanted to back into the corner, away from the two disease vectors.

"You don't want to kn—" John started.

Sherlock talked over him. "No," he said.

"You just want to…do your paperwork," Greg said.

"Yes," John said.

"Absolutely," said Sherlock.

Greg peered at them. "I don't understand, are you dying?"

"Oh, ha." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What's the incentive?" Greg couldn't help pushing. This was too entertaining.

"No, no. There is no way I'm tell—"

John grinned. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"JOHN."

Greg looked between them, suspicion pricking at the edges of his consciousness. "Wait. Maybe I don't want to know."

"We're not telling you."

John, however, just grinned cheekily at Greg and flashed his eyebrows.

Greg rubbed his hand over his face. "Nope. I don't want to know."

“I’ve been ill so it’s been _ages_ ," John said, just pushing Greg's buttons now. Perhaps this was retribution for all that TMI about Mycroft.

" _Stop_ ," both Sherlock and Greg said at the same time, presumably for very different reasons.

"Poor Sherlock doesn't know what to do with himself. All that extra energy going to waste…”

"—Okay." Greg pushed back from his desk and walked around the perimeter of the room, as far away from them as he could get, to the door. "You know, I'm going to get a coffee. Don't touch anything. I'll get you your paperwork when I get back." He shuddered exaggeratedly, and John grinned. Bastard. No wonder he could put up with a Holmes.

The thought brought Greg up short as he fled for the breakroom. If that was so, did that make him a bastard too?

* * *

When he got back, John was pacing around the outside of the room, looking at the ephemera posted on Greg's walls with his hands tucked behind his back. Sherlock had flung himself into a chair with his feet on Greg's desk and was currently playing with the stress ball. He squeezed it so the iris popped out toward him. He pulled a face.

"Why do you have _this_?" he asked.

Greg batted Sherlock's shoes off the edge of the desk and plucked the ball from his hand on his way round. He dropped it into the top drawer. "I'll just be disinfecting that later."

Sherlock slumped and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like a petulant schoolboy.

"I'm taking pity on you,” Greg said as he turned his chair around and ruffled through the file cabinet behind him for the correct papers. "I guess I can't complain if you're actually going to—" He stopped and sighed and reached over the desk to pull the stress ball away from Sherlock, who had retrieved it again while Greg's back was turned. At that moment, Greg's mobile pinged in his pocket. "Oh, just do your work, for Christ's sake." He pulled out his phone to see who had texted. It was Mycroft. There was no way he was going to read this while _Sherlock_ was in the room. Who knows what he'd deduce, rightly or wrongly. 

Greg felt there was a distinct air of the schoolroom about the place as he left John and Sherlock doing paperwork and went out into the corridor.

`I will phone you in two minutes. Please find a place where you can discuss something with me.`

Instead of dread, Greg just felt a frisson of excitement. The imperious bastard. Warmth spread through Greg’s chest and it was then he realised he was in serious trouble: he would never escape from this relationship unscathed. Everything Mycroft did these days was endearing. Even if it was creepy.

Greg was making his way out to the rear car park when his mobile rang.

“Hey,” he said.

“Gregory.”

“Okay, what have you done? I can tell by the sound of your voice—“

“My assistant will be arriving any moment now. She will leave an envelope by the rear bins of your building.”

Greg snorted. “What’s with all the cloak and dagger, Mycroft?”

This time when Mycroft spoke, Greg heard the smile in his tone. “I’ve set up our secret channel.”

A very different frisson shot through Greg’s body. “Is that so?”

“My assistant will be leaving the details.”

“Couldn’t have a courier do it?”

“There is only one person I trust.”

“This can’t be more important than state secrets.”

“It’s more important to me.”

Greg felt himself go pink. “Er. Okay. Okay then. So this is your assistant? Alice or Anthea or whatever her name is today?”

“Yes.”

"Does she...does she mind about us? It must create more work for her, you moving your schedule around for me, and..."

"Does she mind?"

"Yeah."

"She filters all my incoming emails."

"I'm afraid I don't..."

"Gregory, please think about it for a moment."

He didn't understand. "Sorry, what are you..."

"Who do you think covered your very lovely hide after you sent me that video on an unsecured channel?"

Greg’s stomach dropped to his feet. “She saw it?!"

"I don't know if she… _enjoyed the entire spectacle_ , but she certainly saw enough to know it was going to be an issue."

"So she..." _Oh holy hell._

"Made it no longer an issue."

"She can do that?"

"She can do a great many things."

"Your assistants terrify me." Which was a tremendous understatement.

"Good. That's good."

A long black car pulled up at that moment, and out stepped the woman in question.

“She’s here,” Greg said.

“Enjoy,” Mycroft pretty much trilled in return before he rang off. Okay, maybe not _everything_ Mycroft did was endearing.

“I, er, hear you have something for me.”

She looked a bit startled to see him waiting before smoothing it into a perfectly placid expression. “Inspector Lestrade.”

“Planned to make the drop on your own?” he said. “Because now I’m _in_ the Bond film?”

She ignored that and pulled out a brown paper sack. It looked like someone's lunch. “In this are the directions to setting up a secure channel between you and Mr. Holmes. If you need assistance I can provide—“

“No.” Greg coughed and willed himself not to blush. “That won’t be necessary.” _You’ve already had too much to do with this already._

“Fine.” She gave him a knowing look and Greg considered crawling into the leaf pile at the edge of the car park and never coming out again. Anthea patted him patronisingly on his good shoulder, but when he expected her to move back to her car her hand turned into a vice around the bones of his clavicle, digging in. 

His knees weakened. “Ow. Ow. Ow. Fuck. Is this your version of the ‘hurt him and I’ll kill you’ talk?”

She stared at him openly, expression serious. Pain flared like fire in his shoulder, and she wasn’t even breaking a sweat. “Oh yes.”

“I promise. I promise.”

“Yes?”

“Message received. Ow.”

She continued to pinch for another few seconds before releasing him. “Good.”

He blew out a breath and rubbed the ache out of his shoulder, watching her step lightly into the car. She gave him one last warning look, and it drove off while she was still closing the door.

“Jesus Christ,” Greg said aloud. He stared at the plain paper sack in his hand. What the fuck was he getting himself into?

`Message received,` Greg typed into his mobile on his way back to his office. He shoved the bag in his pocket.

`Excellent.`

`Your assistant really is terrifying.`

`I can go over the details of our channel at dinner tonight, if you're interested.`

As he stomped up the stairs to his floor, Greg smiled. `Oh, I'm VERY interested.`

`I suspected that might be the case. 7:30?`

`That's a bit earlier than usual.`

`I'd like a bit of time afterward for experimentation.`

Greg raised an eyebrow and smirked at his phone as he typed, leaning on the wall just outside his office. `This is just an experiment to you, is it?`

While he waited for a response, Greg tried some deep breathing exercises to will away the nerves in his stomach; it wouldn’t do to go back into his office with Sherlock there, deducing everything that was going on. After a moment of contemplation, grasping for an excuse why he was gone so long, Greg headed for the break room to get a coffee. It was only when he was back at his office door again that he realised that he already had a drink waiting for him in there. He stopped short, trying not to laugh at himself.

For a few long seconds he wavered, then went back to the break room to get another coffee, this time without sugar, then pushed his way into his office.

“I've brought you coffee,” he said.

Sherlock looked up from his paperwork, snorted, and went back to work. John flicked him on the ear.

“Thanks,” John said, while beside him Sherlock covered the side of his head and pouted like a wounded puppy.

“You’re welcome,” said Greg.

He settled back behind his desk and put his feet up to drink his coffee. This time he really did feel like a schoolteacher, watching his students diligently completing their work while he sat back and contemplated…lesson plans, or whatever teachers did. These days they probably surfed the internet.

…The thought of which made Greg pull his mobile out of his pocket again. Mycroft had responded. `Nothing so casual.` Greg hid his smile behind his coffee cup.

“Ugh,” Sherlock said, his eyes still on his work. There was ink smeared all on the underside of his hand.

“What?” John said, his left arm curled around as he wrote. He seemed barely to be paying attention to the conversation.

“Lestrade.”

“I’m just drinking my damn coffee,” Greg said at the same time John said, “What is he doing?”

“He’s sexting Mycroft.”

“I’m not—“ Greg started, but then John looked up and raised an eyebrow. Greg felt his face turn hot. “—sexting,” he finished.

“Vile,” Sherlock said.

“Shut up,” John replied.

“And I’m leaving,” said Greg, standing and heading for the door again.

“Coward,” he heard Sherlock say as the door shut behind him. Greg leaned against the wall, took a breath of relief, and drank some of his coffee purely for the comforting warmth. He glanced down at his phone.

`Nothing so casual,` it still said.

`Experimentation is serious business?` Greg typed back.

`It is with you.`

Greg grinned so hard his cheeks hurt. He hoped no one was coming down the corridor.

Which was, of course, the moment Donovan rounded the corner with her lunch. Greg hurriedly scrubbed his hand over his face to hide his expression but it was too late: she was snickering at him.

"Wow. That was a ridiculous look.”

"Shut up."

"How adorable."

"Shut _up_."

“Loitering in the corridor, blushing to high heaven, all soppy. Must be your boyfriend."

Out of sheer habit he opened his mouth to deny it, but all at once the truth of it crashed around him: it was true. Mycroft was his boyfriend. A terrifying boyfriend, and there were complications that went along with it, but it was true.

This time— _this time_ —she was absolutely right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part three coming in 2015. In the meantime, thanks for reading.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Morning Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052201) by [gonekrazy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonekrazy/pseuds/gonekrazy)
  * [Don't Stop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712826) by [undun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun)




End file.
